


Lease Or Buy

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Buy [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Doll Play, Pet Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:57:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 49,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a commerce society, a merchant found an unconventional way to profit. Not everyone understands just what it is he does for money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt. 1

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 

**[* * * * *]**

**Part One**

**[* * * * *]**

 

Once upon a commerce society, a merchant wandered into a deal outside his usual realm of experience…

Eh, scrap that. It was true, but life on Cybertron was no fairy tale. A merchant who normally dealt in heavy armament beheld an opportunity for some light trading, and he went for it. It worked out. Credits changed hands, and it was more enjoyable for the merchant than anticipated. He decided this type of deal was good for himself, personally, if not necessarily for his normal side of business: no pressure, lots of positive attention, and money as a reward for sacrificing his free time. That was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He hung out his sign in the new trade, as it were, and didn’t expect more than a few customers. His prediction fell far short of the mark, however. It turned out that the particular sector of the commerce society he worked in was short on mechs like him. Word got around. Offers poured in. The merchant, somewhat to his surprise, found that there were plenty of buyers willing to throw their credits at him. They competed to buy him in his off-time. They gave him gifts and all but adored him, treating him with utmost respect even as they hired him. He fulfilled their wishes, and in return, they would do almost anything to keep him happy and on the market. 

The merchant discovered that he liked that. Caution relaxed into a lazy, discreet kind of comfort with the new business side of his life.

Then Kaon, Onslaught, and Shockwave happened. The Detention Centre kind of put a crimp on business overall, much less leisure-time activities.

Earth also happened, however. Earth was an open market. The merchant quickly buried himself in new business on the black market, the stock market, any market he found, and he was happy. Primus, was he ever happy. It wasn’t the galactic market, but humans dealt in some _nice_ weaponry. A few improvements, barely even a drop of alien technology, and the humans fought over themselves to throw money in his direction. He made money hand over fist, minimal effort and maximum return.

Outside of the markets, Earth wasn’t a paradise for Swindle. Cybertron hadn’t been his fairy tale beginning, nor was the middle anything but a war for survival. And credits, of course. Swindle could do business under the worst of conditions. He was no princess. He knew how to fight to get what he wanted. Nobody would save him, and he’d kick the aft of anyone who suggested he needed to be saved. Sure, he had joined the Decepticons technically as a noncombatant, but anybody who believed somebody covered in weaponry was playing display model only? They needed their processors defragged, pronto. Swindle was the best in the business, and his business was armaments and everything associated with them. He knew his goods inside and out, and his goods mostly consisted of stuff governments banned while buying by the crateload under the table. 

What he couldn’t bargain his way out of, he could blow the top off of. He might be an Autobot-sized grounder among heavy-duty frames, but he was no push-over. He could shoot the knees out of anybody taller than him. Anybody bulkier, he knew someone with a friend who could call in a favor on a buddy and get an airstrike if the frag grenades he kept on hand didn’t do the job. Mechs either respected his ability to use his wares, or they experienced his job skills first hand. Even if he didn’t take them out, his vast network of business acquaintances was perfectly willing to take out bothersome mechs who thought the merchant’s size made him vulnerable. 

On Earth, those who crossed him found themselves out of ammo or even small luxuries at the worst time, and frag if he’d sell them any more. There was nothing quite like going up against Optimus Prime with only half a clip left, or discovering that the Constructicons were out of black paint, leaving only that horrid chartreuse color that made anyone who wore it a laughingstock.

To be honest, Swindle had been so involved in reconstructing his business network and defending himself against Autobot and Decepticon alike that he’d forgotten that anybody looked at him as a commodity. He was Earth’s most wanted illegal arms’ merchant, or the smallest Combaticon. He was a lot of things on and off-duty, a charming smile and practiced business spiel schmoozing with Cybertronians and humans alike, and it simply didn’t occur to him to consider other business angles. All in all, he was just really busy with more serious deals.

Waking up after the Detention Centre hadn’t been easy on any of the Combaticons. Rebelling against Megatron and getting punched down not once but _twice_ did them in for good. The loyalty programming just cinched the whole mess like a noose around their necks. They couldn’t escape the Decepticons, and they were on the bottom of the Earth hierarchy now until they proved themselves worth of being permitted to move up. Official duty took up most of their time, because they had to haul their own weight plus prove that they were twice as tough as anyone who said otherwise. 

It wasn’t so bad for Brawl. Brawl just had to show up and punch things, and he was good. The others? Not so simple.

Onslaught persistently tagged after both Starscream and Soundwave, playing ‘junior’ tactician just to claw his way into officer meetings. Humiliated by their condescending attitudes, he came back to the Combaticon base and spent more time than not on the firing range destroying suspiciously familiar-shaped targets. Then he reported for duty again, keeping his head down around Megaton and raising his hand like a kid in class to request permission to interject an observation or opinion in tactical meetings. 

Blast Off had the worst orbital shifts as the most inexperienced of the Earth space-capable crew. He came down from his flights pitted from debris, cold from poor maintenance on his exterior shielding, and utterly exhausted. He recharged like the dead and traded planetside shifts to maximize his rest time, even at the expense of trading monitor duty for foundation reinforcement duty on the outside of the underwater base. There was very little in life more pitiful than Blast Off’s dull visor when the tired shuttle slumped into his berth still reeking of sea water.

Vortex was the Constructicons’ scut-monkey and occasionally Soundwave’s errand ‘bot, and he sullenly submitted to their superior medical and interrogation expertise in the hopes of being allowed to demonstrate his own work experience. He returned to the Combaticon base and sat in his quarters staring at the wall. The look in his visor burned, he hated himself so much. 

None of them were allowed the control to show their abilities, or the full extent of their skills. Megatron was no fool. The dangerous trio of tactician, sniper, and interrogator had nearly taken Kaon right out from underneath Shockwave. Megatron put them at the bottom here on Earth, and that’s exactly where he would keep them crushed until he forgave them. So approximately never.

Swindle, on the other hand, showed up for his first shift under Ratbat, reorganized the financial records, shuffled some credits around, bought shares, made a few contacts with three phone calls and a delivery of flowers to the right address, and ended up promoted to Finances & Procurement Officer. Under Ratbat’s close supervision, of course, but yeah. Just like that. One shift, and he was right back where he’d left off when Onslaught originally sucked him into the Kaon scheme. 

The nice thing about openly being a money-grubbing mercenary was the freedom to sell himself to the highest bidder. A merchant went where the credits were, and Megatron had the credits. Therefore, he belonged to Megatron. The loyalty programming eased Megatron’s mind over the matter, but loyalty didn’t matter. Swindle belonged to the mech with the money.

It wasn’t always an easy role, but Swindle played it well. He could do what nobody else in the Decepticons could: he could get along with _everybody_. He was, by nature, a people-person. He liked to listen, he liked to be ‘in’ on things, and he absolutely loved attention. Swindle had the wide purple optics and a nice, friendly smile. 

Wait, rewind, because that was the part he took for granted these days. The optics and the smile, not to mention somebody had put that groundframe together with more than a nod to what was easy on the optics. He took them for granted so much because he’d forgotten anyone could see the conmech personae at face value, emphasis on the face. Everybody who approached him wanted product, not the person selling it. 

So when Thundercracker stopped by the unofficial Combaticon table six months after their reprogramming and return to Earth, well, he didn’t think much of it. “Sure, I’ve got a minute for my favorite blue Seeker,” Swindle said, already smiling. Those pretty, pretty purple optics sparkled, and he winked as he stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemechs. A customer calls.”

Onslaught glanced at the flyer, but Thundercracker ignored the rest of the table. As per usual. When someone wanted to talk to Onslaught, Blast Off, or Vortex, the summons came the same way a mech would call a cyberhound: _’Here! Sit. Stay. Do a trick.’_ And the three Combaticons, thoroughly tamed, did their tricks on command. Brawl never noticed or cared how he was called, because he was used to being one of the faceless soldiers, but they fumed silently every time they had to play flunky.

When someone wanted Swindle, however, they walked over and politely asked for some of his time. Because Swindle inevitably had something that mech wanted.

Although the cant of Thundercracker’s wings suggested a different deal than a mere weapon’s upgrade. Onslaught was starting to get a handle on gauging Swindle’s business deals by body language. He studied the two chatting mechs out of the corner of his visor. They stood just out of audio range, but Thundercracker’s stance shifted slightly as he watched. The Seeker’s hips angled, bringing wide blue wings closer to Swindle’s shoulders in a far more intimate gesture than normal business called for. What kind of deal was this? Swindle’s head tipped back, his optics widening before he looked down and away, a low riff of laughter breaking his composure. 

More telling, the smooth-talking merchant didn’t glide outside of the gesture, letting it swish by. One foot moved forward, in fact, until the smaller Decepticon eased into Thundercracker’s personal space in conjunction with the Seeker’s weight shift. Wicked optics peered up before those wings cut off Onslaught’s line of sight.

“What’s he up to?” Vortex muttered quietly, and Onslaught realized he wasn’t alone in pretending not to watch the deal going down. 

Now that he thought to look around the room, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of Decepticons paying close attention. Especially when Swindle sauntered back to the table, picked up his abandoned ration cube, smirked at the other Combaticons, and followed Thundercracker back across the room to the table unofficially claimed by the jets. Skywarp saw them coming and threw up his hands, but he grinned at Thundercracker instead of protesting as Swindle set his cube on the table. Thundercracker sat down, saying something to his wingmate. Swindle looked around the room, an oddly thoughtful expression on his face. After a brief hesitation, he nodded to the mechs staring intently at him.

And then he --

\-- he --

_He sat on Thundercracker’s knee._

Onslaught’s hand tightened on his own ration, but Blast Off’s intakes spluttered. “What the frag?” Vortex said deadpan. “Did I miss a memo? When did this become a thing?”

“It **isn’t** a thing,” Onslaught hissed, pinging the gestalt link that ‘felt’ like Swindle as hard as he could. On the periphery of his mind, he could feel Blast Off and Vortex doing the same. The link stayed sealed. Swindle’s side of the gestalt link remained closed unless forced open by combining into Bruticus, and even then, none of them retained enough of their minds to go digging. Since most of them avoided exploring the bond out of sheer revulsion for what the spark-deep gestalt bond had forced on them, that had been fine. 

Now? Now they regretted that. Swindle remained unaffected by their efforts. A vague sense of confusion filtered in from Brawl’s link, which was perpetually left open because secrets were vulnerabilities he didn’t have. He didn’t give a scrap about mental connections or spark bonds. The three frustrated Combaticons blasted him with anger and alarm, and the tank fell off of whatever he’d been sitting on. Since he was currently on-duty, probably a chair. 

_*”What’s your problem?!”*_ he yelled into the unit frequency. _*”Reflector’s laughing at me, ya afts!”*_

“Swindle’s sitting in Thundercracker’s lap,” Onslaught said tersely into his pick-up. 

_*”So?”*_ All three Combaticons blinked, taken aback. Their surprise filtered into the bond, and the tank’s exasperation slapped them upside the gestalt links like he was right there at the table. _*”He look like he’s unhappy?”*_

Trying not to look like they were spying, they checked.

Huh. Furtive looks turned to blank stares. 

“No?” Vortex ventured.

 _*”Then knock it off. Idiots.”*_ It wasn’t often Brawl, of all mechs, got to say that to anyone. His side of the gestalt link radiated self-satisfaction before he walled it off.

Blast Off, Onslaught, and Vortex didn’t notice. They were too busy noticing other things.

Swindle was definitely not unhappy. He had half-curled into Thundercracker’s lap, legs tucked up onto the large Decepticon’s other leg. His arms were splayed out on the table. His helm rested on one forearm, facing away from the Combaticons’ table. He looked like he was half in recharge. One of Thundercracker’s hands slowly moved over him, giving long strokes down his back and stopping to toy with his shoulder-wheels every few strokes. Fingers lingered on Swindle’s helm, tracing along the upper edges and down the back before sweeping down and rising to start again.

Instead of being the center of attention for the table, some sort of prize or conversation piece, the other jets at the table were talking over the Jeep’s head like he didn’t exist. The cube in front of him had noticeably gained a finger-width more fuel, strangely. Even as the other three Combaticons stared, Thrust reached over and tipped another glug in. Thundercracker picked it up in one hand and held it beside Swindle’s helm, jiggling it enticingly as he dipped his chin and murmured something. Swindle stirred and curled his legs a bit more as if searching for a comfortable position. 

Thundercracker let him shift around and showed him the cube again once he settled. One hand batted at it. A rare smile creased the somber blue Seeker’s face, and he put the cube down to go back to petting the smaller mech, saying something with a wry grin to the rest of the table.

The jets all laughed, and Skywarp donated a splash of his drink to the cube this time. Thundercracker nodded thanks to his wingmate and picked up the cube to once again tempt the Jeep. His other hand slid up to knead softly at the base of the neck exposed to him from how Swindle partially lay on the table. Shoulders shrugged at the touch, but Thundercracker persisted, jiggling the cube and talking quietly. The rest of the table kept their own conversation going as if none of the group cared in the slightest that Thundercracker had a fully functional mech in his lap, apparently trying to feed him like some kind of reluctant, finicky technimal. 

Eventually, Swindle sat up and stretched, back arching down and wrists flexing on the table. He lifted his helm, and the Seeker’s other hand moved from his neck to cradle his chin in careful fingers. Optics lidded and dim, chin held up on Thundercracker’s fingertips, Swindle docilely parted his lips as the cube settled against his bottom lip. As exact as if he was measuring out enriched nucleon and Starscream were glaring at the back of his helm, the jet tipped the cube until a bare mouthful of energon poured out. 

Swindle accepted it, and the cube lifted away while the fingers under his chin gently massaged his main intake tube, encouraging him to swallow. When he did, the hand on his throat went back to petting his back in long, relaxing strokes, and Swindle set his helm back down on his arm. Thundercracker set the cube down and went back to talking with the rest of the table like nothing had happened. 

No, not quite. His optics dulled to a calm red, and his wings slanted out in a posture not usually seen from flyers trapped in an underwater base. It was…abnormal.

“What is he **doing**?” Blast Off whispered. Someone could have walked up out of nowhere and hit the Combaticons over the heads, and they would have been less shocked. 

While they weren’t the _only_ ones gawping, most of the room didn’t seem to care. That was what had Onslaught stunned. “It…must be something Thundercracker made a deal with him for.” 

The ‘why’ of it escaped him. He could see the ‘what,’ although he didn’t understand what he was seeing. The jets around the table casually gave parts of their rations to Thundercracker to be fed in sips and swallows to the smallest Combaticon for no apparent reason. Swindle refused the cube more than once, turning up his nose or pushing it away with little batting motions. The blue Seeker rubbed his tires, thumbs circling his hubcaps over and over again, until the Jeep changed his mind and let himself be hand-fed.

“Didn’t know he was that perverted,” Vortex said, but the insult came out more like the ‘copter were honestly surprised.

“Swindle or Thundercracker?” the shuttle next to him asked, almost in the same tone.

“Either. Both.” He shook his head. “That’s just -- rust my rotors, if I’d known he’d auction himself off like this, I’d have bought him myself.”

But it turned out to be not that simple. “Not interested,” Swindle said bluntly to Vortex when the ‘copter made an offer more sleeze than subtle. “I don’t interface with clientele.”

Blast Off and Onslaught scoffed from where they eavesdropped. The way Thundercracker had put his hands all over Swindle in the common room belied that claim. Not that Swindle had left the room with the jet or even done anything but sit there and let himself be fondled like some sort of lapdog, but come on. They could fill in the blanks easily enough.

The merchant eyed them narrowly. “Think what you want. You’re not anyone I’d consider putting on the short list even if you had the cash to back up your offers.”

That was an insult that couldn’t be passed up. Onslaught strode forward and pinned the smaller Decepticon to the wall. “You want to say that again?” he rumbled, low and dangerous. He drew on every bit of control he had as gestalt leader and smacked Swindle’s gestalt link with it.

This time, Swindle flinched. He’d felt _that_. “I’m off-duty,” he gritted out anyway. “What I do on my own time is up to me, not you. If I want to sell that time, what of it? It’s not **yours** , and you can’t **claim** it just because you’ve got that Pit-slag bond to my spark!”

The arm across his chest bore down harder. “You are **mine** ,” Onslaught snarled. “We are a military unit. As far as military law’s concerned, I command you, therefore I **own** you. I’ll take whatever I want from you.” 

The other three Combaticons looked at each other uneasily, but Brawl shrugged, Vortex laughed, and Blast Off shook his head. They were already Megatron’s whipping mechs. Finding out they were under Onslaught’s heel as well wasn’t life-changing news for any of them.

Not so for Swindle. The merchant was the king of compromise. He surrendered and made deals and found ways to bargain around insurmountable odds.

He bucked off the wall and kicked Onslaught full in the face. “You can **try**.”

The Combaticon commander turned his head slowly back toward the pinned mech. His other hand rose to wipe a trickle of fuel from under his mask where a broken line flopped free from the dented plating. Swindle had gotten him a good one, but he hadn’t let the Jeep go. 

His visor seared into the kicking, squirming mech. “Yes, I can.”

So he did. 

He tried, and Swindle fought him. On-duty time was sacrosanct, dedicated to the leader their reprogrammed cores had to obey. Off-duty, Swindle schemed and ran, sabotaged and did everything possible to get away. Onslaught systematically smashed anything in his path and found the little conmech wherever he hid. That’s when the real struggle began.

Brawl started spending more time at the underwater base, away from the rest of the team. He didn’t object to his superior officers’ glitches and whims, but that didn’t mean he had to participate -- or like it. Staying away was the tank’s strongest objection. Vortex took the opposite route and lent a hand here and there where Onslaught needed it. But he was on double-duty because of whom he reported to. The ‘copter wasn’t often around to help. 

Blast Off walked away from the ongoing fight, stating that, “This isn’t my problem. You deal with him however you want.”

Meanwhile, interest in Swindle’s off-duty time grew even as the conmech buckled under Onslaught’s crushing grip on the gestalt bond. The offers started coming in. Good offers, the kind that used to make the small grounder smile. These were the kind of offers he used to enjoy taking between armament deals. Those that remembered him from Cybertron spread the word, and the small demonstration with Thundercracker hadn’t hurt. It seemed that the Earth-bound Decepticons had missed having someone like him around.

“That good of a frag?” Onslaught sneered when he intercepted a transmission. He couldn’t break Swindle’s transaction code, but he knew what the offer was for. Swindle wouldn’t have tried to hide it if it were official Decepticon business. 

The mech bent over on the floor, axle ground under the larger Combaticon’s foot, refused to respond. He’d given up protesting that he didn’t sell his body that way. Onslaught couldn’t see any other reason someone would pay for his company. 

“Maybe I should try you out myself.”

That got a reaction. Swindle turned his helm until a purple optic glared upward, dark and furious. “Don’t even say that.”

Onslaught snorted.

Whether or not it was a scare tactic, the threat had been made. There wasn’t anyone on the base to hear what happened, if anything ever did. Onslaught could follow through, and nobody would stop him. Swindle never opened his side of the gestalt link, not even under the worst Onslaught put him through. Who would help him? The others certainly wouldn’t. 

This wasn’t a fairy tale. Nobody would swoop in to save his princess aft. It was up to him to get out of this mess.

The thing about an openly mercenary merchant was that he had no loyalty. Sometimes, self-interest could be the most brutal competitor on the market, and he would sell himself to that bidder in a split second.

A week later, the spare parts incident happened.

Swindle sold them all. He walked away from the other Combaticons and felt not a twinge of regret.

Oh, Megatron made him get them back. They were gestalt; the spark bond would have forced him to reassemble them eventually. By making Megatron turn his attention on him, however, it became a faction issue. Swindle bought and stole the other Combaticons, returning them to the Decepticons, and it wasn’t because he’d made a mistake. What he’d done was very intentional: he’d taken it over Onslaught’s head. Kneeling with Starscream’s blaster at the back of his head, Swindle opened his side of the gestalt link to thrum grim satisfaction at the other four Combaticons.

Who could only stare in dumbfounded confusion from behind him. “Obviously, you fail to control your own combiner team,” Megatron said to Onslaught, who winced. “Swindle’s greed has made a fool of you, but Ratbat,” the tyrant swept his hand toward Soundwave’s Cassetticon, who preened smugly, “has shown himself more than able to keep such antics in check. As such, Swindle will be transferred to his command immediately. Any **questions**?” 

The last was directed at Onslaught, since the gestalt leader’s hand jerked up in protest. Onslaught looked up at his leader, swallowed hard, and let his pride die. He lowered his gaze and shook his head, staying silent. This was not the time to reveal how he’d been outmaneuvered. Megatron would have no sympathy for a commander who allowed a subordinate to manipulate him, which was precisely what had just happened. Swindle had gotten himself transferred from the Combaticon base, permanently out of Onslaught’s reach and out from under his command unless he wanted to be a spectacle for the other Decepticons while trying to track down the Jeep in the underwater base.

Swindle meekly stood and went to stand behind Soundwave, at Ratbat’s wing. He looked thoroughly cowed.

Only when no one was looking did pretty purple optics rise, and a smile cross his face. It was not nice.

He didn’t need to be saved. Pity those who forgot that fact.

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** Yeah, this was me. I love the nonsexual side of BDSM, including things like pet play, and there isn’t enough stuff written for it. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears. **]**_


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 **[* * * * *]**

**Part Two**

**[* * * * *]**

 

Swindle didn’t have favorite customers. Not exactly. Money was money in business, because he could be a professional when it came to an exchange of goods and services. 

Although he wasn’t _that_ professional. He was a merchant of flexible morals. More of a mercenary or conmech, really, but the professional front gave the sleezy undercarriage of unsavory war-time markets a slick top coat. Thus, Swindle didn’t technically have favorites, because ‘favorite’ implied that he gave discounts, but his prices did change according to how he felt about the customer. He didn’t charge less; it was more along the lines of those who annoyed him were charged proportionately more. The credits balanced against any negative feelings he might have. 

That being said, he had to admit that he did have his preference for who bought his after-hours time. He kept his approach to the purchasing side strictly professional, but he was prone to personal feelings about clients. Certain offers were given more priority according to his mood. Tippers had a special place in his spark. Extra money always ensured good feelings and a sliver more interest on his part.

As much as he tended to enjoy playing pet, he limited how many appointments he offered. Hey, he knew supply and demand, even in this niche market. Too much supply would glut the market, and the price would plummet as demand turned to disinterest. His appeal came from the rarity of other small, cute mechs willing to play pet, after all. So no matter if he was in the mood to be pampered every night of the week, he set a schedule: only a certain number of appointments per customer within a period of time that adjusted by customer. For instance, he didn’t take on any client but Astrotrain more than once a month. The triplechanger bought sessions in pairs, however, insisting on spacing the two sessions out a week apart. He was fanatic about following up on the initial session. 

But Astrotrain was the only Decepticon who asked for pet _training_ sessions, which were far different than what were typically requested, and Swindle’s adjusted the time limit accordingly. That meant that he never opened for sessions to the triple-changer more than once every three months, if that. Pet training tired him out, and the merchant had to be persuaded into sessions. Struggling in the shuttle train’s lap, whining as the mech admonished him for disobeying commands? It had its appeal, but his aft could only take so much of the disciplinary spanking, no matter how hilarious he often found Astrotrain’s scolding. Good behavior got him utterly spoiled in the follow-up appointments, the ‘bad pet’ routine stung his plating a little too much. He took Astrotrain’s offers only when the numbers started dancing in interesting ways.

Although Astrotrain did tip. A lot, if Swindle held off for more than a few months at a time. Nine months gave him half a session extra in credits doled out during the follow-up, one perfectly obeyed order at a time. The shuttle-train had a backlog of ideas for training by then, and he’d all but leapt through the screen when Swindle’s session opening went live. What were credits to a mech who got the silliest grin possible just from training a smaller grounder to sit back on his heels and follow the tip of his finger? Swindle had concentrated so hard those pretty purple optics almost crossed as he kept his nose pressed to Astrotrain’s finger, never letting it break contact no matter how it moved. 

Astrotrain practically threw the credits at him. 

Anyway, tippers aside, Swindle didn’t play favorites. If he didn’t feel like playing toy mech, then he rejected every offer that came his way, and it didn’t matter who was offering or how much was on the table. If he felt like it, he discreetly put out word that a cute little Autobot-sized pet was looking to be pampered. _Everyone_ on his non-business client list got the message. Whoever replied first got first consideration. Best offer won. He just happened to weigh a few things besides money in these particular deals. 

He did have his regulars, and he had to pay attention to their needs. Close quarters on Earth required playing to his clients even more than usual. The mechs who came to him regularly needed to be acknowledged.

Astrotrain, of course. Blitzwing, during the football season in North America. The big, dumb triplechanger sent him exorbitant offers when the NFL started showing up on TV, and Primus spare Swindle the nagging if he didn’t agree to spend the Superbowl in Blitzwing’s lap. He didn’t mind how the absent-minded petting to his back and head sped up during an exciting play, but getting dumped onto the floor every time the cogsucker jumped up to cheer got old real fast. 

Then there was Mixmaster, who pinged him for a session any time a shipment of energon came in from a new location. Mixmaster starved for praise on most of his experiments. Feeding someone a sip of different types, brews, and mixtures of energon delighted the chemist. A toy mech was a captive audience, open and honest in taste-testing as only lower intelligences could be. Swindle didn’t much like being blindfolded, but Mixmaster did so love to watch him react. Giving a begging pout at the end of a session was well worth it; Mixmaster would inevitably feed him whatever he’d shown the strongest preference for. Swindle would paw the Constructicon’s leg and whine for that, despite having to lap from a bowl on the floor. It made the customer happy as well, since watching Swindle crouched over a bowl, optics dimmed and engine purring in nearly primal pleasure just from feeding, sent Mixmaster walking off on the clouds.

Reflector sometimes scheduled him, but that was more of a commercial session than pure pet play. Swindle wasn’t sure if it was a fetish or a future import catalogue in the making, but the camera components liked to dress him up like a doll. The sheer amount of effort put into resizing human accessories to him left the conmech shaking his head in disbelief. Bemusement as well, since he didn’t really see the appeal in the items Reflector picked for him. They were so…random. Entire outfits, or just accessories like fuzzy handcuffs in leopard print, a G-String in purple to ‘match his optics,’ and even sunglasses. He honestly didn’t mind being dressed up -- it was hard not to feel absolutely treasured while three sets of hands reverently rolling the stockings up his thighs and three sets of vents closed in the breathless anticipation when they clipped the garters on one by one -- but every picture was documented and under contract. He’d find out what was going on eventually, if Reflector ever decided to use them for a catalogue or whatever down the road.

Soundwave? Well, that was an irregular regularity he still couldn’t say he knew what he thought about. The sessions happened. Swindle just didn’t plan on them, so the offers surprised him when they arrived. They were always generous. He usually spent about ten minutes eyeing them like they’d explode.

Thundercracker was so completely opposite of Soundwave that Swindle couldn’t compare the offers. The sessions weren’t _that_ different, but Thundercracker had been one of his occasional clients before the Detention Centre. Some things had changed in the course of the war. Thundercracker’s need to relax via caring for someone hadn’t. The underlying tension Swindle carried into every session with Soundwave was notably absent when he showed up for sessions with Thundercracker. They were almost as relaxing for him as they were for the Seeker himself. The flyer wasn’t a _favorite_ , but Swindle did enjoy their sessions together.

Thundercracker was also the only one of Swindle’s customers bright enough to ask to buy in bulk. Not that Swindle took special clients, and it wasn’t like the Seeker got a _discount_ or anything, but Swindle did bend the rules a bit for him. Just a little. Thundercracker was the only Decepticon Swindle allowed to schedule his next appointment during the current session. 

Thundercracker liked stability. He liked the sense of control having a schedule gave him. Swindle knew that, and he did try to cater to his clients. Happy customers were repeat customers. One appointment in the future didn’t stress the merchant out, no matter his mood that week.

It didn’t always work out for the Seeker, however. The problem with pre-scheduled appointments was that they couldn’t be rescheduled if something else came up. So if Starscream landed in the repairbay under Hook’s cursing care due to an angry visitation of Megatron’s fists, that left Thundercracker as the interim Air Commander. 

Filework waited for no pet. Then again, the pet didn’t wait for filework. Thundercracker either split his attention between pet and work, or forfeited the session entirely. Sessions were paid up front at the start of each session, but Swindle demanded down payment on the pre-scheduled appointments. A forfeited or rescheduled session would leave Thundercracker out part of the fee one way or another.

Compromise it was.

Swindle the pet mech was not amused by this turn of events. He stared at the Seeker reproachfully from the berth. This? This was the compromise? No. Bad temporary owner. 

Thundercracker had his helm turned away toward the console screen, but Swindle knew the staring could be felt. Truth be told, he didn’t mind that Thundercracker was essentially paying him to nap while the Seeker worked, but Swindle had a role to play. It was kind of fun, in a naughty way. Decepticons didn’t get to do ‘naughty,’ but Swindle sometimes relished how he freely stepped in and out of roles regular mechs couldn’t. During a session, he became a toy for his master’s pleasure. 

But tonight his master was busy. Thundercracker normally lavished attention on him, feeding him by hand and stroking him until he dozed. Now that attention was being given to a report instead of to Swindle the pet mech. Pet mech resented this change of affairs. Pet mech wanted to be pampered, not ignored. Pet mech wasn’t the center of attention, and he wasn’t happy with that at all.

Pet mech...felt mischievous. 

And residual guilt for wasting the Jeep’s time must have been poking Thundercracker, because the Seeker had yet to object to him rustling about on the berth. Object seriously, that was. If Thundercracker really wanted him to stop glaring and gronking his starter, he could. He could stop Swindle at any point by changing the rules of their set game. Swindle would have no problem going into recharge until the reports were finished and Thundercracker wanted him awake again. The lack of objections, however, told him that this had become a different part of the same game.

Swindle romped about on the berth, tussling with thin air and digging into the berth cover with little scrabbling motions of his hands, trying without trying to actually make a hole. He bumped the wall, rolled over, and did it again. Above him on the top bunk, Skywarp shifted. Swindle gronked his starter again, turning the key again and again, and revved his engine a few times. He kicked the wall this time, and Skywarp muttered a protest.

“Shhh,” Thundercracker said without turning.

Swindle rustled more determinedly, squeaking his tires over the berth cover and picking at the manual charge control panel. _Pick pick pick_.

“Stop that.”

Was that a real objection? No, that’d been in the coaxing, soothing tones of a master with an exasperating toy who wouldn’t sit still. Swindle spun his tires and revved his engine. Bored, he did it again. Louder. Longer. 

Skywarp muttered again. Thundercracker turned and shot a frustrated look at the pet rolling around kicking his feet perilously close to the underside of the other Seeker’s bunk. “Swindle!” he hissed in a low voice. “Be still.”

The Jeep curled up in a ball and sulked. From behind a knee, large purple optics demanded attention. Where was his deserved share of attention? Thundercracker _neglected_ him. Soon, he would die of boredom. Woe unto him. 

He was thoroughly enjoying this role. 

“Don’t look at me that way,” the blue Seeker sighed. Even with his back turned, the pretty optics could be felt. Swindle frowned, sticking out his lower lip a little. Impossibly, the expression caused Thundercracker’s wings to tense. “Stop. I just have one more report to do.”

Swindle grumbled and started picking at the controls again.

With another sigh, Thundercracker stood up and walked across the room to bend down and stroke a hand over the small grounder’s helm. Swindle met the hand coming down, nudging into the palm and narrowing his optics in unfeigned pleasure. It was purely for manipulating the Seeker into doing his bidding, but he knew what it looked like. Thundercracker smiled helplessly and pet him again, running his hand down to rub one shoulder tire. Swindle sprawled on the berth and let his engine rumble under the attention. 

One last pat to his helm. “Now be quiet,” Thundercracker said softly before straightening up and going back to the desk.

Oh, that wouldn’t do. Now Swindle felt challenged. 

He rustled. He picked. He scrabbled about digging at the berth cover. He revved his engine and kicked the wall. Skywarp’s protests started to sound more coherent the closer he came to being woken up by the Jeep’s antics. One hand fell off the edge of the top bunk, halfway making it to an accusatory finger pointing at the smaller Decepticon. Skywarp tolerated Thundercracker’s eccentric purchases; he didn’t share his wingmate’s hobbies, especially when they interrupted his recharge time.

Swindle eyed that hand, considering his options.

“Don’t you dare,” Thundercracker whispered.

Swindle leaned forward, smiling that nice little smile he pulled out on suckers. Why, he wouldn’t do _anything_. 

Thundercracker was up and across the room before he could nip Skywarp’s fingers. “No!” The blue Seeker lowered his voice hurriedly. “Stop that. Bad!”

The Jeep beeped his horn and glared, pushed flat on the berth. Thundercracker had never pinned him down like this. It didn’t hurt, but it surprised him. They hadn’t discussed ‘bad pet’ behavior prior to this, and he didn’t know what to expect. It didn’t look like Thundercracker wanted to stop playing, but he wasn’t sure what the Seeker wanted him to do next. He didn’t want to break the pet role, but he needed instructions.

Big hands pulled him off the berth and set him on the floor, firmly guiding him down to his knees. “Shoo. Go cause trouble somewhere else.” One hand lingered on top of Swindle’s helm, and then Thundercracker returned to the desk to quickly resume typing.

Swindle cocked his head to the side and considered his temporary owner for a moment. Tonight, it seemed his role was that of a needy pet whose master had to keep interrupting work in order to fuss over him. Thundercracker had, after all, just given him permission to continue making life difficult. 

Hiding a grin, Swindle went looking for trouble. 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 **[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Bargaining from flat on his back was not his strongest position. Never let it be said that Swindle passed up an opportunity, however.

Alright, so it was more like the opportunity wouldn’t leave him alone. “Not interested,” he stated yet again. Once more, he turned his head the other direction on the repair slab to reinforce just how not interested he was. “I’m injured. I want to be repaired. That’s the only relationship I want between us.” A molecule of tact wormed through the pain assaulting his busted front. “No offense.”

Regrettably for his attempt to close the conversation, Scavenger just scampered around to the other side of the slab. Again. There was no avoiding the mech. “Come on! You, turning down a **business** relationship?” That came out sounding like something luscious but obscene. Swindle twitched. Frag him and his weak spot. Scavenger leaned down to put his elbows by his face and gave the downed Combaticon an innocent look. “I don’t buy it. You have a price, and if you’d just tell me what it is…”

Yeah, straight for the weak spot.

This? This was why Swindle usually found Scavenger to be the most fun among the Constructicons. Scavenger might have the self-esteem of a teenage girl, but he was a hoarder and collector. The mech knew how to negotiate in order to get what he wanted. Swindle sometimes went out of his way to acquire items he knew would get him a few days of offers and counter-offers, flamboyant bartering techniques and cut-throat veiled threats. Stretching his bargaining skills against another experienced trader made for good exercise here on Earth.

Today was not the day to be a merchant. Today was the day Grimlock punched Swindle’s grill up under his windshield. Reinforced gestalt framework or not, Jeeps were not meant to indent that way. Business ranked second to repairs, today.

But Scavenger had been sent in to negotiate while he was down, and that was playing dirty. “I am in pain,” the smaller Decepticon bit out, his normal smile flattened at the edges into a strained grimace. “I do not want to be in pain. What you’re asking for is going to mean I stay in pain longer, and frag that. No deal!”

“No no no,” Scavenger rushed to assure him, hurrying around the slab when Swindle stubbornly turned away. Primus, was there no way to escape the mech? “No, you won’t be in any pain! You misunderstand me, Swindle.” A hand hovered, hesitating mid-air because Swindle’s genial, welcoming body language had closed off into a hostile tension. The Constructicon settled for patting the repair slab instead. “We want to take **care** of you. Treat you! No pain, I promise. They just -- uh, we just,” the smaller mech tensed further, catching that slip, “want to have a patient who’s not quite so…” Scavenger waved a hand, trying to pull a description out of nowhere. “Decepticon.”

Sentient, he meant. Swindle knew _exactly_ what the Constructicons -- he had his suspicions about just which ones had sent in their negotiator -- wanted from him. They wanted an injured pet to whimper and cry under their hands in dumb fear and pain, who had to be restrained and soothed instead of knocked upside the helm. They didn’t want to have to explain every single procedure or account for why they were doing what they did. They wanted him to be a patient and responsibility instead of an equal and job. 

Swindle did not want to be a pet today. He really, truly didn’t. His chest was smashed in, there were glass fragments in his coolant reservoir, and a pool of windshield wiper fluid was forming at the small of his back on the slab. 

None of which negated the fact that the gearhead was right. Swindle did have a price. Plus, the idea of being taken care of had its merits. Not ones he typically thought of under these circumstances, but in conjunction with the right price, it was worth throwing out there for consideration.

He slowly lit those glittering purple optics he knew everyone found so exotic, and Scavenger stared down at him. “Triple Mixmaster’s usual rate.”

The Constructicon didn’t even flinch. “Done.”

“And.”

Justifiably wary, Scavenger waited. 

Swindle blinked his pretty optics, charming for all he was worth. “Nobody gets access to my medical records or updates on my condition. Ever. Megatron, sure, but nobody else unless they’ve got a direct order from him.” The other Combaticons still pressured him when they thought they could get away with it. He had no intention of Onslaught knowing when he was weak and vulnerable. 

Scavenger stared into the light over the berth, obviously communicating with his team. A few minutes later, he gave the small groundframe on the slab a thoughtful look. It was an odd proviso. Swindle knew what he was thinking. Could it be used to the Constructicons’ advantage in future dealings?

It’d make life interesting later, he was sure.

“Agreed,” Scavenger said at last. 

“Fine.” He shifted, legs creaking protest as he bent them. “Transfer the credits to my account through Mixmaster. And -- how do you want to play this?” It felt weird to discuss a pet session while he was so thoroughly banged up, but okay. The deal was brokered. Time to deliver.

“You remember that time you slipped Astrotrain’s leash and went running through the halls?” Swindle grinned despite himself at the reminder, and Scavenger ducked his head, seeming somewhat embarrassed. 

Astrotrain had been _incensed_ , but mostly at himself. It’d been a rookie pet owner mistake. Swindle had played the part of an untrained, uncomprehending pet to the hilt, and Astrotrain had fumed because trying to take a pet who wasn’t leash-trained for a walk was stupid. He’d been forced to rein in his temper when Swindle had finally stopped zooming around the base like a moon-crazy Stunticon on highgrade. Every time Astrotrain had raised his voice, the Jeep had taken off driving again. When Astrotrain had cornered him at last, he’d sat on the common room table and given the triplechanger a confused look for the anger. What? He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? 

“Not out of control, but not obeying commands all the time,” Scavenger clarified. “Not so much running away and squealing your tires, but…it hurts, right?” Swindle gave him a flat look. “Just…go with that, I guess.”

He sounded like he wasn’t sure what was wanted. Great. Swindle would be playing with mechs who didn’t know what rules they wanted the session to be played by. Oh, well. It wasn’t the first time.

“No pain?” he stressed.

“No pain,” the Constructicon agreed. “I’ll, um, go get everyone.”

Everyone? Fah. Swindle bet it’d be one Constructicon, two at most.

As soon as the door closed, he levered himself off the repair slab. Wincing, he staggered across the room. Time to get into character. As much as it hurt now, he felt reasonably confident that he’d be taken care of properly. Probably better than most care the Decepticons got from the Constructicons. Surly healthcare for the ranks was different than specialized pet care. 

In return, he just had to play a part. He crawled under a set of cabinets and wedged himself into the corner, like a wounded animal trying to hide. Then he laid there and cycled air in shallow vents, waiting out the throb of pain from moving.

The door opened, and he lit his optics dimly to see two sets of feet enter. Ha. He’d been right. 

“Where is he?”

Hook immediately turned and stomped back toward the door. “Scavenger! He’s gone!”

“Fragger’s going to try taking **our** credits and running? Not very bright, is he,” Scrapper said coldly, and Swindle’s mouth curved in a thin smirk. 

He lit his optics a bit brighter and hissed.

The angry conversation halted. 

He deliberately rattled his plating a bit and hissed again. The feet moved.

“Swindle?”

“Where are you?”

“Come out.”

“It’s alright, we’re here.”

“Swindle?”

Coaxing calls started as two sets of feet began pacing the repair bay. Swindle curled tighter. Scrapper and Hook would find him soon enough, but he’d make them work to get him out of his hidey-hole. Call _him_ not very bright, did they? Hmmph. 

"There you are." Suddenly: Scrapper. The leader of the Constructicons looked somewhere between pleased and relieved to have located him. 

Swindle glowered at him. He made a low warning noise at the mech now kneeling beside the cabinet, and then he curled further into his corner. Brighter than _that_ , thank you very much. 

"Come out of there." Scrapper's voice had the coaxing tone of someone used to dealing with recalcitrant patients with more damage than common sense. “Swindle, come on. We can’t fix you if you’re under a cabinet.”

Swindle relaxed his curl a bit, letting one optic peek over his arm. A hand extended toward him, fingers curled and thumb chafing back and forth over the forefinger in an enticing gesture. He eyed it and uncurled a fraction more. The hand came closer.

Hook dropped down beside his teammate abruptly, visor squinting as he bent to follow Scrapper’s gaze, and Swindle's damaged motor gave a warning howl. Scrapper hesitated, but Hook looked more evaluating than wary. "We're going to have to open up his engine block." He reached past Scrapper's arm to grab the closest bit of Swindle he could.

That comment about his intelligence just asked for retaliation, and he had Scavenger's instructions to make life difficult for the two Constructicons. The wounded Jeep twisted, jerking his captured foot up in order to deliver a nasty sharp _bite_ to Hook's wrist. He didn’t hold back. 

"Fragging **Pit** \-- !"

Hook released him, but only to shake him loose and grab another handhold. Yelping, Swindle found himself dragged out from under cover by the now pissed-off surgeon, and that rasped the bent side of his chest across the floor. Yelping turned into a yowl as his engine and vocalizer synced into one pained sound. He clawed the floor, fighting the pull.

"Careful!"

"He's got to come out," Hook snapped.

"You don't need to handle him that roughly!"

No, he didn't, and Swindle intended to teach these mechs how to treat a pet right. Any owner worth the credits he shelled out learned that play was about the pet, not the owner. Time for Hook to figure out that if the owner didn't behave right, the pet didn't have to cooperate in the slightest.

Swindle let go of the floor seam he'd been stubbornly clinging to, doubled over, and glomped onto Hook. The surgeon let go, hand recoiling to protect the sensitive fingers, but the Jeep didn’t aim for that. A dumb pet wouldn't know how to target Hook's most vulnerable spot. A pet just lashed out at the one hurting him. Swindle latched onto Hook's forearm and savaged it.

Fingers tore and clawed, teeth bit, and he even got a few good kicks in. The pain of his chest gave him motivation, the money gave him cause, and the visceral satisfaction of Hook's utterly shocked yell made him feel good. Sometimes, mindlessly lashing out really did help. His neck ached from jerking at the solid grip he had with his teeth, but Scrapper and Hook were yelling at each other now, Scrapper physically stopping Hook from just punching him off. Swindle's fingers scraped peels of metal and paint away from the surgeon's arm in long clawmarks, his teeth punctured the armor entirely, and _Primus_ did his chest hurt!

He inflicted the pain he felt on Hook for less than thirty seconds, growling and snarling while Scrapper restrained the surgeon, but the second he saw an opening, the smaller Decepticon pushed off Hook and retreated back into his hidey-hole.

Stunned silence gained him a few extra seconds to tuck himself back into a protective ball. His chest throbbed. Swindle licked Hook's fluids off his teeth and gave a feral grin behind the shelter of his arm. Physical vengeance on someone who prided himself on looking down on others intellectually felt good. 

Better yet was how Scrapper immediately took Hook to task. There was no doubt in the engineer's mind whose fault the injuries were, despite how Hook began sputtering. "That fragging -- "

"I told you not to do that," Scrapper said back. "Let me see your arm."

"My arm's fine! Get that idiot out from under there before I hogtie him and hang him from the ceiling!" The tone was enough to get the Jeep's engine howling again, but Swindle added an angry growl over a pet's tone-based wariness. If the Constructicons tried that, he’d have a commlink open to Ratbat before the first knot was tied. 

But Scrapper had a better head on his shoulders than Hook's pride currently allowed. "I told you. He's injured and in pain. The only way we're going to be able to treat him is if he trusts us, and now he's doubly afraid of what we're going to do to him."

"But -- !"

"No." Scrapper's voice brooked no excuse. " **I told you.** Would you trust someone who hauled you around by your foot for no reason you understood?"

"But he **knows** that we have to -- "

"No, he doesn't." The engineer's voice fell into a hushed whisper as he fell out of the session role of master and reminded Hook of what was going on. Swindle was playing a pet, and a pet didn't know anything that required more than basic functions and rudimentary thought processes. That meant they had to play their part in the roleplay, which meant they went along with the farce that Swindle was unintelligent. Hook had to shake the idea of Swindle the Combaticon if they wanted to play this game.

Swindle curled tighter and nodded to himself. Newbies. Scrapper sounded like he had some experience, but Hook definitely hadn't done this before. The conmech idly wondered if the surgeon could _play_. Being an owner needed a mindset, and Hook didn't seem the type to be able to slip in and out of character.

Scrapper, on the other hand, knew the game. "Swindle? Swindle, come here. Swindle, here." The stern tone he’d taken talking to Hook had become something soothing. He had the tone down pat. Part of Swindle knew how to listen to tone, and the conmech appreciated someone who wielded it well. Tone and body language filled a huge part of his sales repertoire. He peeked and saw Scrapper bent to look under the cabinet at him. "There's those pretty optics," the engineer said warmly. "There's a good 'bot. Come on, Swindle." The hand extended to flutter fingers enticingly at him again. "See, it doesn't matter what you say to him," Scrapper said, obviously not to the Jeep even as he kept his visor on him and his voice in that coaxing tone, "just that you sound nonthreatening. Isn't that right? Who's a cute little grounder, yes you are."

It was hard to keep a straight face through that, but Astrotrain piled the silly flattery on deeper during sessions. Swindle shifted and let his engine change gears. The clack of broken pistons was loud under the cabinet like this, and he whined pitifully. 

Hook huffed as he knelt beside his teammate, but he grudgingly held out a hand, too. "You're the most irritating rebuild bilge pump on this hemisphere of the planet," he crooned in a rusty attempt at Scrapper's warm tone. "Come here so I can strangle you with your own exhaust pipe."

Big purple optics squinted suspiciously at the surgeon. Toy mechs weren't intelligent, but this one knew that this particular Constructicon had grabbed and caused pain once. Swindle carefully kept his lips from twitching into a smile at the litany of abuse being crooned at him, and he inched away from Hook's hand. Hmm, nope. Creative as Swindle the merchant found the diatribe, Swindle the pet didn't trust Hook.

Scrapper pushed Hook's hand down and away. "Let me get him out. He, ah, didn't like what you did before." He murmured something else as an aside to his teammate, and Hook stood to stomp away. Swindle watched his feet go. The surgeon never did like being proven incapable of a task. "There we go. Better?" The Jeep's optics turned back toward the engineer trying to coax him out. There were fingers being wiggled at him. "Come on, little one. Time to fix you. Here, Swindle."

He let the stream of soothing nonsense calm his engine down until only pained, malfunctioning clicks and strained hiccups could be heard. The cautious, tense curl unwound eventually, and Swindle ever-so-slowly nosed toward the hand still being held toward him. Scrapper patiently kept his palm open and the fingers straight, not a hint of quick, threatening movements there. 

The tips of his fingers were investigated, cautious and ready to retreat. Scrapper didn't move. A nose touched his thumb. A tongue flicked against his index finger, investigating his taste. A tiny motion from the licked finger, probably of surprise at the damp swipe, and Swindle scurried back into a tight ball. He kept one optic on the engineer, however, and there was no mistaking that pleased glint in the mech's visor.

Yeah, Swindle had his number now. Scrapper liked to gain a scared, injured pet's trust. He liked to tame. Astrotrain liked to train; Thundercracker liked to care for; Scrapper liked gentling wild pets to hand.

He could play to that. 

Good thing Scavenger had closed off the worst of his internal leaks before propositioning him. Swindle made Scrapper work to get him out from under the cabinet. The crooning tone encouraged him along, never expressing even a smidgeon of irritation for the amount of time it took before the Jeep dared uncurl again. Wary, Swindle progressed with glacial slowness from sniffing Scrapper’s fingertips to nibbling the heel of his hand while the engineer slowly, gently, _carefully_ slid his fingers under the pet's chin. Purple optics squinched up in pleasure as Scrapper began rubbing at the sensitive tubes and cabling underneath, paying special attention to the sheathes where exposed cabling went up into his head. Barely scratching at the rims of those had Swindle sagging forward into the hand under his chin, fingers opening and closing in small kneading motions against the floor as his damaged motor tried to chug into a contented purr.

Part of that was feigned, but Scrapper would never be able to tell how much or how little. Swindle was very good at body language. It was why he excelled at playing the part of a pet. 

The unfeigned pleasure he had was the other reason he was so good at this. Attention turned on him and him alone felt good. He soaked it up like a greedy sponge paid by the hour. He liked being the center of attention, and the fact that customer satisfaction soared while he got all the money and the attention just made this job one of the best uses of his off-time ever.

Scrapper coaxed him out from under the cabinet by gradually drawing his fingers away, making Swindle stretch and stretch trying to get the rubbing under his chin back. The Jeep shifted back and forth in his hidey-hole, nervous, but he really wanted those fingers back. They felt good. This Constructicon was _nice_. Swindle the pet liked him. Maybe it was okay to inch out of his safe place? Maybe. If he was careful.

Swindle oozed out of his corner a little, chin up hopefully. The fingers tickled under it before withdrawing again. The Jeep inched after them. 

When he was close enough, Scrapper extended his other hand. The pet mech eyed it, investigated it, and hunched as it descended slowly toward his face. Jittery, he scrunched into the floor until he couldn't evade it any further. A second later, he made a throaty sound of pleasure when it swept over the upper rims of his optics. Scrapper stroked the intricate optical ridge mechanism with just the right pressure, and Swindle leaned into his hand this time.

All the while, the constant monologue soothed and coaxed, praised and called his name over and over until the tone did indeed become the important part. Half-hypnotized by the warm flow of words, Swindle cautiously emerged from his cabinet shelter and blinked in the light.

Before he could take a fright and shrink back into the shadow of the cabinet, Scrapper smoothed a hand over his helm. "Pretty pretty. Ready to get fixed? Hmm? Pretty Swindle, we'll get you repaired. It'll be just fine, you'll see. Come on, Swindle. You're okay." 

Swindle dimmed his optics and churred his engine roughly, pushing into the petting with the slack-jawed pleasure of a toy mech well on his way to trusting the person talking and touching him so gently. He sneaked a look through dimmed optics and kept his amusement from his face. Scrapper's expression, mask or not, was the self-satisfied gloating look more commonly seen on Hook. His visor held a weird tenderness directed toward Swindle himself, but yeah. Yeah, Scrapper was enjoying himself to no end right now.

Hook, on the other hand, was the picture of impatience: arms folded, foot tapping, and frown in place. “Just get him on the table, already.”

The look his team leader shot him made Swindle curious about the internal dynamics of the Constructicons. “Don’t rush him. He’s doing just fine,” Scrapper said in a low croon, but Hook flinched and became interested in rearranging tools on the repair slab shelf, suddenly. “Pretty pet. Such a pretty Swindle. Let me see those optics…” A deft hand stroked his optic ridges again, distracting the conmech from the nervous pet act he’d been playing up to while watching Hook. Swindle dimmed his optics and pushed into the touch, deciding Scrapper had worked hard enough. “Good, good. Follow me, now?”

Swindle leaned, trusting, into the hand guiding him, but he kept a wary optic on Hook. He had the sneaking suspicion that Scrapper enjoyed earning trust -- but Hook was a sadist. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Hook enjoyed _testing_ that trust. If the surgeon’s hands started ‘slipping’ and having minor ‘accidents’ that would cause pain to confuse and bewilder a trusting, dumb pet, well, then he’d know for sure. And he’d even let Hook cause the pain to make him whimper and seek reassurance from Scrapper. He would just keep a running tally of the pains to multiply his fee by if Scrapper requested another session. 

He would, of course. Nobody looked at Swindle like that and let it go with just one session. So Swindle would never take Hook as a client again, and he’d consider Scrapper if the engineer paid the price he was sure Hook was about to send skyrocketing.

In the meantime, he’d take back some of his own by biting the scrap out of Hook once the pet mech’s trust got pushed too far.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 

 **[ * * * * * ]**  
 **Part Four**   
**[ * * * * * ]**

 

Swindle had stopped reacting to the awkward silence in Blast Off’s cargo hold a couple years back. If it didn’t increase his profits, culture a relationship network, or lead to a good time in some way or another -- why the frag should he even acknowledge it? He was stuck with Vortex, Onslaught, and Blast off sharing a gestalt bond with him, but that didn’t mean he had to spend a single moment of his precious time on them. Time was money. He managed money for a living. He knew how to direct his attention appropriately. 

Away from the wastes of time, of course. The merchant tended to use the transit time inside Blast Off to manage his accounts or do business research. Anything internal to keep himself pointedly out of the stilted conversations that did attempt to spring up. He could put on a sales smile and chime in if there were any other Decepticons in the hold, but he didn’t bother pretending to be civil when it was just his team.

He didn’t enjoy the company of the other Combaticons. They were marked down as a threat in his mind, but a contained one. They couldn’t harm him overmuch without the gestalt bond and Ratbat responding negatively. The spark-linked pain, Swindle clamped down on. He wouldn’t give the fraggers the satisfaction of feeling how they could hurt him, even if he screamed under Vortex’s tools. The irate backlash from his immediate superior, however, he encouraged. Ratbat outranked them all, and Swindle would unashamedly hide behind that rank. Anything to keep Onslaught across the cargo hold from him, and Vortex under orders not to even touch him outside of a combiner merge.

Bruticus could handle himself. Swindle didn’t worry about what the other Combaticons got out of him during their brief combines, either in battle or training. It was before and after battles when he had to be cautious. Onslaught kept attempting to corner him, and Vortex was out to ‘persuade’ him to return to the Combaticon base.

No. Not in a million years would he voluntarily walk back into that cesspit. His status in the optics of the other Decepticons -- the ones who spent _money_ \-- dropped by association with the Combaticons, and a target popped up on his back anytime Onslaught, Vortex, or Blast Off was about. They’d tried stranding him on his own in the underwater base for a while, but that hadn’t worked out the way he thought Onslaught had intended. They were in and out of the main base too often to strain the gestalt bond. 

The physical need of the gestalt bond was easy enough to satisfy, oddly. He wouldn’t go near Vortex, Onslaught, and Blast Off even for business, but Brawl’s casual acceptance of Swindle had come out of left field. The tank filled in like the Combaticon bouncer: he had no attachment to the club, but he’d obey the orders management gave him and respect every employee right up until the point the rules got broken. Insert Megatron as management and the rest of his team as employees, and yep. Swindle did love mechs who played by business rules. It made it difficult to con the tank into working for him outside the club, as it were, but Brawl understood well enough why the spare parts incident had happened. No hard feelings there, and Swindle had adopted a scrupulously honest approach to the mech after that. As much as he ever did, at least.

In any case, Brawl took as many shifts in the underwater base as he could, frequently crashing in his quarters there instead of returning to the Combaticon base. That meant that Swindle and Brawl were perfectly capable of seeking each other out when the urge hit to strengthen the gestalt links physically. That kept Swindle away from the rest of the Combaticons, and it prevented the gestalt bond from becoming strained because the Jeep was a stubborn slagger who’d rather install an emotional circuitry baffler than turn to any of the others for help stabilizing.

They did get along outside of the whole gestalt thing. It probably helped that Swindle was small. Brawl liked feeling big and powerful, but he found it perversely funny that the conmech was definitely on top in terms of intellect and the military hierarchy. They’d idly talked about it before, leaning against each other in the common room or in Swindle’s room in the underwater base. Being smaller than three-quarters of the Decepticons wasn’t new to Swindle, but his total confidence in his control over the situation tickled Brawl’s sense of humor. Their encounters left them both feeling better and amused as well.

Put in that context, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Brawl had no trouble accepting that Swindle occasionally rented himself out as a pet. Brawl didn’t exactly experience any of the pleasure of pet play himself, but he _got it_.

“Mechs like what they like,” he said one time, legs up on Swindle’s lap as he slouched on the berth. “I ain’t too bright, but it’s not a complicated thing. You know? Skywarp likes anything sporty with curves, and I can kinda see it. Fast, shiny, lots of glass and class you just don’t get up in the air. Still not my thing, but why does it have to be? He doesn’t hit on me. It ain’t my business unless he gets in my way somehow, and why in the name of ammunition would he? He likes cars. I don’t.” He threw up his hands and shrugged. “Keeps him happy.”

“Viola!” Swindle twirled the wrench, giving a showy toss before going back to using it on the tank treads set across his thighs. “One functional relationship, like magic.”

Brawl levered himself up enough to look over his own chest at the Jeep. “What? I did magic?”

“In the optics of certain mechs, yes,” he said sarcastically. “Keeping your cannon out of someone’s business is apparently less of a basic courtesy than an acquired skill, I’ve found, and some mechs never get it through their thick helms that being acquainted -- or even in the same unit -- doesn’t mean ownership.”

The tank squinted for a moment. “…think you might mean Onslaught.”

“Think you might be reading my mind.”

“Nah, it’s kind of obvious.”

“No, really?” 

They fell into companionable silence after that, and when Swindle finished tightening the loose bolt on the inside of his road wheel, Brawl wandered out of the room as casually as he’d wandered in. Simple as that. They were around each other, and sometimes Swindle hired him for a bruiser, and sometimes Brawl punched Swindle because Ratbat caught the Jeep cooking the books, but mostly it was the uncomplicated coworker vibe that was better than anything else. It was so easy to _understand_ each other when neither demanded anything. They showed up, did their jobs, and went their separate ways.

The day Brawl crossed Blast Off’s cargo hold to sit next to Swindle on the floor didn’t follow that pattern. It also broke the awkward silence the Jeep hadn’t acknowledged. Not ignored -- he didn’t bother acknowledging it. Blast Off, Onslaught, and Vortex held nothing of interest for him anymore, and he had more important things to devote his time to.

Swindle snapped out of his internal business to give the tank his attention, however, because it was Brawl and Brawl didn’t interrupt him for nothing. “How can I help you today?” The notorious sales smile flashed, and jovial optics turned up to him. “Need something special to take the sting out of losing to Warpath, huh?” He could secure a few extra cubes of high grade for a good buddy. For a price, of course, but at a nice discount. 

The reminder got him a sour glare. “Didn’t **lose**. Just didn’t win.” Swindle’s practiced smile took on a smirk-like quality. And just how, precisely, did not-winning differ from losing? “Stalemate.”

“That Blitzwing had to tow you out of.”

“It happens.” Brawl shook his head and refused to continue the topic. “Not why I came over. Onslaught asked me to do him a solid.”

Favors from teammates. The merchant heaved a sigh and glanced in the direction of Onslaught and Vortex, who weren’t looking at him. That didn’t matter. He could still feel them leaning slightly on his closed gestalt link. 

Save Swindle from the attempts at guilt trips, because he didn’t fly on those airlines. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

“Yeah, I know.” Broad shoulders shrugged. “But he asked me to ask anyway.”

The phrasing pinged him, because both of them knew Onslaught didn’t do asking when it came to subordinates. He did orders or demands. “Asked?” Swindle asked carefully.

“Asked.” They exchanged a look at the weirdness. “So can I ask you?”

Well, he was definitely curious, now. He made a go-ahead gesture. “Might as well.”

“Can Blast Off hire you?” Brawl put his hands up when the smaller Decepticon gave him an incredulous, nearly furious glare. “Hey, it’s what he wanted me to ask!”

“I don’t even want to know what he’s proposing to hire me for,” Swindle said, loud, clear, and completely flat. The pretty purple optics his clients so liked were hard when Onslaught turned to meet them. “There aren’t enough credits on Earth or Cybertron to buy a minute of my time, much less anything else.”

Onslaught looked at him for a moment, then turned an emotionless visor on Brawl. The tank made a sound like a deflating balloon and shook his head. Onslaught kept looking. Brawl wiped a hand down his mask and turned it up like he was asking Primus for patience. There was more looking. An almost physical pressure of staring visors, when Vortex turned to add his visor to the look. Brawl met their gazes and huffed air.

Swindle deliberately went back to balancing his accounts.

Until Blast Off finally spoke up, reluctant to get involved but evidently feeling it was necessary considering Brawl’s refusal to pester Swindle anymore on their behalf. “We realize you hold some -- ill-will toward us for past mistakes,” the shuttle said through the closest speaker. “Onslaught felt that you would feel least threatened by me, as I was the least active in…” The pause stretched out just a little too long as Blast Off sought a better way to phrase his knowledge of but lack of participation in the abuse and threats. “I was not as involved in past events,” he finished at last, oddly delicate. 

The Jeep in his hold kept his head down and worked steadily on more important things than an obvious trap. Conning the conmech didn’t work on this conmech.

“We wish only to hire you for a conversation,” Blast Off continued when Swindle didn’t respond. “You had little difficulty working with us on a business level in the past. It would be beneficial to us as a team to return to that smoother partnership. Our value as a whole would improve in Megatron’s estimation.”

Swindle stayed silent. He’d said his piece already. There wasn’t a price in the universe that’d buy his cooperation, and the only value the Combaticons had at all was in the formation of Bruticus. They didn’t need to cooperate as individuals for the gestalt bond to work during a merge. Any possible gain in this exchange would be for Onslaught, then, and like the Pit would he help that scrapyard reject get Megatron’s favor.

Swindle already had value in Megatron’s optics, quantifiable and set aside in neatly added columns in various accounts throughout the galaxy. 

“It is a conversation, Swindle,” the shuttle said stiffly, “not a contract. It can be done in a place of your choosing, at your discretion.”

The truly annoying part of the awkward attempt at reaching out to him, Swindle reflected, was that not one of them likely spared a single thought to outright apologizing to him. They were willing to admit that damage had been done and should be repaired, not that they were wrong to have inflicted it. It wouldn’t make a difference, really, but at least then Onslaught would have to admit he’d pushed too far and done too much. Throwing money at him, believe it or not, didn’t work every time.

Seriously, it didn’t. 

Forgiveness couldn’t be purchased.

Revenge, on the other hand, was a cold, petty package available for sale any day of the week. “Can’t,” he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together and giving an obnoxiously bright smile as Blast Off shuddered through the descent toward the underwater base’s launch tower. “My schedule is full up! Seems everyone wants to spend their time with me when I’m off-duty. Shame I can’t fit you in, but I’ll get back to you when there’s an opening!” 

Which would be never. In fact, Swindle was in the mood to open for public pet sessions right now, since Onslaught and Vortex would both be trapped in the underwater base for the next few days while the helicopter got his rotor array repaired and Onslaught went through the post-mission reports with Soundwave and Starscream. Swindle could make a _spectacle_ of himself, and he’d made a tidy _profit_ of letting the other Combaticons stew in their inability to stop him. Or intrude on his clients’ playtime.

He was going to be pampered and adored, and he was going to rub it in the faces of the cogsuckers he had to share a gestalt bond with.

Blast Off swooped to land, hatch opening, and Brawl shifted beside the Jeep. Swindle turned to look down at him when he bounced to his feet. “Let me know if you need that special something,” he told the tank, still smiling. Brawl blinked up at him before nodding. Onslaught and Vortex only watched as he cocked the wide smile toward them. “And you have a nice day, now!”

There was a vastly uncomfortable silence. He skipped out of the cargo hold without reacting. It was questionable if he even noticed it anymore, but he certainly didn’t care.

 

**[ * * * * * ]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[ * * * * * ]**  
 **Part Five**   
**[ * * * * * ]**

 

Not going to lie: this, he’d missed.

Decepticons were selfish creatures. They had to be. When their military hierarchy valued strength, and only the strong survived in the Decepticon ideal society, then the only way to gain and keep that strength was to hoard as much of the available resources as possible. Gifts leveled debts or created them. Sometimes they were meant to culture future favors through goodwill.

Actual generosity in the form of anonymous presents had gone out the airlock way back when the war started.

Oh, Swindle knew someone wanted something from him in return for the gift, but they hadn’t put their name down. Whatever they wanted, they wanted to see his reaction more than they wanted to trade for a session. If they didn’t put down a name, then it couldn’t be claimed for a favor later on because who knew if the right mech had stepped forward? Anonymous benefactors got their thrills and chills from giving gifts to him out of shyness or prudence, from honest reactions untainted by whatever potential pressure knowing the gift-giver might put on him, or even from publically breaking the weird taboo on giving gifts in the first place. There were a dozen reasons why someone might choose to give a gift anonymously.

The merchant didn’t worry about it. An admirer had given him a free present, and the rush of attention went straight down his back struts in a shivery cascade. The lingering bad mood from dealing with Onslaught evaporated into being completely, insufferably pleased with himself. 

Swindle smiled widely. He’d missed being pampered. He’d missed knowing mechs covertly stared at him because he was a small, cute grounder. Being watched because he was a wily conmech with more weaponry than half the ranks was a given. Noticing and admiring him for the color of his optics and the way he pouted had nothing to do with military might or finances. Swindle was just as greedy for that kind of attention as he was for credits.

Some mechs didn’t like to be objectified. Swindle reveled in it.

If objectifying him led to an anonymous note tacked to the wall next to his door, indicating there was a present for a ‘Good Pet’ in the common room? Objectify away. Blast Off and Onslaught would be there fueling up, unless the tactician had been called in for debriefing already. Perfect timing! Swindle’s sudden good mood called for giving his anonymous admirer a bit of a show as a sign of appreciation, especially since it would be so public.

He made his way down to the common room and walked in. The tables were full, post-mission fueling and mid-shift idleness giving everyone not much else to do but gather here. Pulling all the Decepticons on Earth into a single mission screwed the ongoing shift schedules up, leaving the next shift and a half weaving between too tired from lack of recharge after battle or too jittery to recharge even though they were on schedule to do so. Swindle had a small side business selling Mixmaster’s homemade knock-out solutions for just this situation. Mixmaster had a whole line-up of sedative-laced additives for post-combat refueling, and Swindle collected a tidy percentage of every sale, so he sauntered over to the closest table to schmooze with potential customers for a bit. Business before pleasure, after all.

The empty chair at the unofficial Combaticon table didn’t get even a glance. He ignored the ‘feel’ of Onslaught leaning on the gestalt link. The polite proximity ping from Blast Off got shunted into his official message queue to be dealt with later when he went on-duty, which was not now and would therefore auto-dumped as no longer being relevant when his shift started. Neither of his slagging teammates ever seemed to learn better. No annoying spark-pushes or pinging was going to magically make him reconsider.

That wasn’t important, however. The important thing was only peripherally about irritating Onslaught, really. This was _all_ about Swindle. 

When nobody stepped forward to give him his present, Swindle concluded that the mech truly did want to remain anonymous. He’d missed that. Shy watchers were adorable, in that they gave expensive presents instead of directly buying his time. Something for nothing was the favorite deal of any merchant. 

It didn’t take long to figure out what he’d been given. Everyone else in the room was doing their best not to react, but it was kind of obvious the thing by the couches had been left for him. It had his name on it, for one thing. 

Once he finished doing the rounds of the tables, Swindle slowly walked over and looked down at it. A smile twitched one side of his mouth. A wide, flat bottom with plenty of cushioning; low, turned up sides like cushioned walls; his name neatly written in small font near the shallow front side. A little thing, compared to most of the Decepticons, but just big enough for an Autobot-sized grounder if he curled up comfortably in it.

A pet bed, huh? He’d used to have one of these, long ago, before the war. Back when his regular customers would spoil him rotten trying to entice him to open for more sessions. Back on Cybertron, however, there had been a thriving economy and mechs had the means to repurpose or purchase stuff like this. In order to get this on Earth, it had to be custom-made.

He had his suspicions about who’d made this. If he investigated a bit, he could likely find out where the credits had flowed to and from.

Regardless, the amount of effort put into this gift flattered him.

He knelt beside it, aware that optics around the room were trained on him, and tested the inside of the bed. Oh. Oh, now that was nice. Somebody had gone the expensive route and lined the whole inside with chamois leather. The genuine product, if a scan of the stamp peeking out from a seam didn’t mislead. This was a pricey bit of hands-off pampering, half comfortable resting place and half functional playbed. He could already picture his new set of regulars requesting this be used in sessions.

For this, he would have shown some appreciation in public even if Onslaught and Blast Off weren’t currently ignoring him from their table. That just meant he’d enjoy it more. 

Swindle put both hands down and crawled onto the bed, pushing his hands and knees into the cushions. He circled a few times, bounced once, and then flopped over onto his side. He curled up and dug his side into the leather. His optics dimmed to a smoky purple. This was luxury. The material smelled of some kind of chemical treatment that brought up old memories of the best detailer shops back home, in a different time and on a different world. The scent spread over his plating and rose in rich cloud around him when he burrowed a little further into the chamois. 

The temptation was too great. 

The entire common room stopped what they were doing and stared as the small grounder gave a full-body wriggle before rolling ecstatically. Soft, exaggerated grunts of pleasure accompanied each shoulder rolling in the leather, and his back curved into strange shapes as he self-polished with all the abandon of a turbofox in a grit bath. He scooted one way and back the other, determinedly rootling in a tight circle as he turned over and polished his other side. Murmurs broke out across the room as big, bad Decepticons smothered bewildered smiles at how they couldn’t stop staring. That was just cute. That was just plain cute. That was kicking heels and Swindle burnishing the side of his face on the chamois in absolute abandon, having fun and showing every moment of it.

Thundercracker almost stood up, optics wide and half a smile on his face. The merchant caught sight of him barely restraining himself. The Seeker just wanted to _touch_ , to pick him up and take a polishing cloth to his face, the vents of his helm, each of his hands, and then cuddle him afterward when the smaller Decepticon was a limp puddle of contented pet mech. Swindle wriggled some more and twisted over onto his back. _Astrotrain_ almost stood up, big hands open, because the need to tweak those little flailing limbs kept getting stronger. Scrapper leaned back in his chair to see around his teammates.

Blitzwing dropped onto the couch, almost squashing Thrust before the jet scrambled out of the way, and he dropped a hand over the side of the couch to tickle Swindle’s exposed midriff. The Jeep beeped his horn and curled around the hand, still scrunching about on the leather, and the room drowned in envy that nobody else had thought of that first.

Swindle purred his motor and gloried in the attention, and the gestalt bond prickled as a hint of understanding made it through at last.

**[ * * * * * ]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play, cat barf.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Six**   
**[* * * * *]**

When Scrapper took out the first treat, Swindle hesitated.

It wasn’t from real fear, but because that was his role in the session. He became a different pet depending on the client. Astrotrain paid for a rambunctious pet who sometimes transformed and accelerated excitedly around the base before being reined in again; Thundercracker wanted a cuddly, dumb pet with an occasional spark of attitude; Blitzwing favored a playful pet who had to be worn out before he’d flop down across the triplechanger’s legs while football was on. 

Well, Scrapper liked to tame a wild creature. Swindle’s file on this particular client listed him as enjoying hard work for a suitable reward, less of a game than realism. He wanted Swindle to eye him warily and hide under furniture, not curl up in his lap and beg for attention. The wildlife of Cybertron was long gone, but Scrapper could have done well as a rehabilitator for damaged technimals. If, that was, he could have tolerated releasing them once they were repaired and trusting of him. 

Lacking real wild creatures, he’d shell out a minor shuttle-load of credits and favors to buy sessions with a pet mech who’d act the part. Although it hadn’t been as easy as just throwing money around. Swindle hadn’t even started returning his messages until Mixmaster asked if the merchant would tag a second session on to the end of his usual one. 

Mixmaster, and Mixmaster alone, still had purchasing rights. The chemist had always played nice when it came to business with him, and Swindle liked that about him. The other Constructicons? Frag that. They were lucky he still sold them anything, but his time definitely wasn’t on their purchasing list anymore. After the scrap Hook had pulled, Swindle had made it _very_ clear than the other Constructicons could sit on an axle and rotate before he’d sell a session to any of them again.

There had been electrical burns on his fuel pump. _Electrical burns_. Hook had gotten Swindle’s chest open after Scrapper coaxed him up onto the repair berth, and the surgeon had spent the entire surgery finding small ways to hurt the toy mech. Nothing big. Very purposefully, nothing that couldn’t be excused as an ‘accident’ if he’d been called out on it. Which he hadn’t been, because the entire session went by without Scrapper reprimanding him on the abuse. 

Swindle had played along, reacting with bewildered fear and flinching like a brainless beast, but he’d taken note of every ‘accident.’ Behind the confused whines and wide optics, he’d been adding them up as he patiently waited for the end of the paid time. 

The second the session clock turned over, he’d sat up and shoved Hook away from him. “Get away from me.”

Hook had sneered, “What do you think you’re -- “

He’d pinged both Scrapper and Hook with the timestamp for the beginning and end of the session, a receipt for services rendered, and crossed his arms over his mostly-repaired chest cavity. “Session’s over. I want repairs, and I don’t think you can tell the difference between play and reality, so **get away from me**. You want a toy to squeeze the stuffing out of, I can get you a drone for a good price. Don’t bother asking for me again, because you and I won’t be doing this business again. Now back off and let someone who can honor a contract finish my repairs. Mixmaster or Long Haul will do.”

“How dare you.” Pulling against Scrapper’s suddenly restraining grip on his shoulder, Hook had taken a step toward the smaller Decepticon. Wrath made his visor narrow in threat even before he started speaking. “You throw big words for such a weak mech. When your body’s unconscious on the slab next time, you’ll regret slandering **me**. My word’s worth twice what any greasy conmech’s is. You sell out to whoever flips a few credits at you, and you think you have some sort of moral high ground? Ha! You’re nothing but a piece of shareware, giving the right price to anyone with cash or credit. We all know you’d jump on the chance to offer yourself up for interfacing if you thought anyone would bid for a used, worthless program-slave. Frag, Megatron’s probably got Onslaught begging for it. Everybody knows your shuttle’s on bottom in every way over in the launch hangar, and the only reason Brawl’s not a virus-ridden shell is because Soundwave keeps our firewall updates coming. Primus knows that Vortex would take half of **us** and be happy he’s finally of some sort of use around here.”

“That’s enough, Hook,” Scrapper had said softly, but his fingers had indented the surgeon’s shoulder. “Long Haul can finish closing up here -- “

“No,” Hook had spat back. He’d yanked himself loose and advanced on the smallest Combaticon. “No patient’s going to dictate to **me** how things get done in my repair bay!”

“He’s not telling you; **I** am,” the Constructicon team leader had said at the same time Swindle pulled a pistol out of a hidden thigh holster and set the barrel right on the tip of Hook’s nose.

The whole room had frozen. Arms merchant. Right. In case Hook had needed a reminder that the relatively tiny grounder on his repair slab sold weaponry to the already armed and dangerous for a living.

“And no client’s going to dictate to **me** how I sell my product,” the merchant had said in a voice of cold steel. The ruthlessness of an open market had stared down the two Constructicons, one seething but helpless and the other now studiously neutral. Scrapper’s body language had said clearly that he wouldn’t interfere in this showdown unless Swindle took the shot. “Especially not when the product’s my body. I will sell how I want, when I want, to whom I want, and **only on my terms**. Think what you want about my unit. Say what you want. ‘Everyone’ can spread rumors about me whoring myself out, for all I care. But you try and lay a hand on me that isn’t contracted, and I’ll take it off you. This is business, nothing more or less, and that means you abide by the rules.” 

Still staring levelly down the pistol, refusing to acknowledge the aching of his chest, Swindle had proceeded to go through his standard session end follow-up. Usually he’d have given the customer a couple days to soak in the experience and think about the session before reviewing it for satisfaction levels and overall impression, but this hadn’t been done for customer feedback. He’d read off his list of what Hook had done to him, checking off every violation of Scavenger’s verbal agreement with him prior to the session start. Every pain had been listed. 

Fists shaking at his sides, Hook had stood there and listened while glaring bloody murder. Every word had been a direct blow to his pride. He’d attempted to skip the contract violations by implying that Swindle likely gave the goods away for free, but the Jeep hadn’t gone chasing the bait. If they’d gotten into a nice, distracting argument about honoring agreements made to perceived ‘lower’ mechs who bargained away their bodies, Hook could have claimed that the contract hadn’t been valid in the first place. Maybe he’d have even tried to claim that paying money for free product meant the Combaticon owed him more.

However, Swindle had experience in this sort of word-weaseling. He’s gotten this slag thrown at him in the past. Mechs tried to play lawyer on him without understanding that he wouldn’t get riled enough to forget that business was business. Instead of arguing over whether anything to a ‘mech like him’ had to be honored, he’d just listed the ways a mech like _Hook_ had failed to honor a business contract.

He’d finished by resting his arm in his lap, pointing the pistol at Hook but no longer directly in the face. “As I said: I want someone to repair me who knows how to honor a contract. That someone isn’t you.” 

When Scrapper had pulled on Hook’s shoulder again, the surgeon had silently turned away and strode toward the door. 

Swindle had called after him, “By the way, Hook? Frag Vortex hard, and he’ll enjoy it. He likes it when mechs are stupid enough to link into his systems. Something about being a professional interrogator, I’m sure.” 

The surgeon had stopped in the door for a moment, all but vibrating with rage, before leaving without a word. 

Scrapper had waited until he was gone before turning cautiously to face the Jeep. “Don’t,” Swindle had said curtly. “You knew what he was doing. That’s as much a contract violation as causing me pain in the first place. I’m holding you responsible, and I won’t be doing any more of this sort of business with you, either, not unless the offer comes with an apology and a penalty fee. Since Hook’ll never lower himself to apologizing to me,” that flashing smile had a cutting edge, “don’t bother contacting me about anything but our usual business deals.” 

That had been the end of that. Long Haul had been sent in to finish his repairs. That had been an awkward silence. 

Giving Scrapper a taste of what was on the market had practically guaranteed he’d be back. Swindle had known it. He’d ignored any messages from the Constructicon leader, waiting for niggling need to turn into the sort of addicted craving a few of his past clients had felt. Sending Mixmaster to do his dirty work had only told the merchant how much Scrapper wanted it. 

Trying to eel around his terms hadn’t made Swindle any more inclined to open for business. “No, and if he happens to ‘just show up’ during our session, I’ll consider it a cancellation on your part and keep the fee.”

The chemist hadn’t replied to that message. Point made.

The next day, Swindle had received a message from Hook. He was tempted to have it printed out and framed. It was a formal, stilted letter of apology. The stiff words were a recognition of poor business practices on the part of Party One, who admitted to the wrongdoing and offered sincere regrets to the offended Party Two. It’d obviously been a form Hook had filled out at the request -- and only because of the request -- of his gestalt, as the nasty, bile-filled footnote tacked on at the end had snidely informed him.

The merchant had laughed and started negotiating with Scrapper for a second session.

Which led to today, after Mixmaster had finished feeding him the new Alaskan oil-derived energon samples. Swindle had really enjoyed that. He’d run his engine enthusiastically, crouching on the floor in the middle of the Constructicon’s quarters while Mixmaster cleaned up around him. The chemist had worked slowly. He’d mostly just watched Swindle lap from the bowl in front of him, tongue flicking quickly in and out of the best blend offered that session. The smaller Decepticon’s expression had been one of contented bliss.

Now, offered a similar treat in gel form, Swindle peered out from behind a chair at it and downshifted to let his motor make a lower, warier noise. An hour made all the difference when it spanned two totally different sessions. Mixmaster wanted a pet to test his concoctions on; Scrapper wanted a pet to tame. Good thing Swindle was good at playing different parts.

“Come here,” Scrapper called quietly. He stood, deliberately slow, and retreated a few steps back to his berth in order to sit. It made his bulk look less threatening. “Come on out, Swindle. Come on.”

Swindle had spent thirty minutes cowering and hissing so far in this session. He’d responded to Scrapper gradually inching closer by tolerating the approach right until the Constructicon moved wrong in some way. Then he’d skittered across the room to find somewhere else to hide. Under the berth. On the berth, crammed into the corner. Under the desk. Scrabbling at the door trying to get out. And now hiding behind the chair. 

Changing tactics was a smarter idea than continuing their slow-motion chase around the room. Swindle decided to go with it, even if his tanks were pleasantly filled already from Mixmaster spoiling him. Treats were treats, after all, and anything made by the Constructicons was better than most of what the rest of the Earth-based Decepticons made for themselves. He slid out from behind the chair and sniffed delicately at the treat on the floor.

“That’s it. That’s a good Swindle.”

Something smelled wrong. The Jeep cocked his head to the side to eye Scrapper while giving the treat another sniff. His sensor suite feedback came back clean, chemical receptors registering nothing but the rich aroma of concentrated energy, yet there was a cautionary pop-up on his HUD. He crouched close to the floor over it and growled, optics narrowing and armor sleeking close to his body when Scrapper shifted slightly. The engineer stopped moving and continued talking nonsense in that soothing tone that Swindle tuned out. He had an alert to pin down. 

What was it? The treat smelled fine, except it didn’t. He didn’t know what was setting off alarms, but he knew better than to ignore them. Still staring suspiciously at the Constructicon sitting on the berth, he lowered his helm to give the treat a little lick. The in-vent from Scrapper didn’t go unnoticed, and Swindle’s client file updated a note about Scrapper’s preferences. Drawing out accepting things from the Constructicon’s hand evidently met with approval. Scrapper wanted the tension and subdued victory of _winning_ a pet’s trust.

Even as the client file auto-saved, Swindle had his answer. The standard chemical receptors Starscream had built into him had been augmented by Swindle’s own sources in the years since coming to Earth. He’d added specialized equipment for business purposes, since ‘taste-testing’ some of his more lethal wares worked surprisingly well for evaluating their potency. The standard sensor suite could tell him chemical composition, not how long ago elements had been mixed or the _exact_ composition. That could be important in his line of work. Not in this line of work, at least not prior to this, but right now that nonstandard equipment told him the energon treat he’d licked had been tampered with. 

It was laced with something tasty in small amounts, delicious in larger amounts, and reacted badly with processor plants no matter the amount. If he ate this thing, his tanks would seize up in reaction now or later. When exactly they were _meant_ to rebel depended on whether this was intentional or not. 

Pretty purple optics gave Scrapper a doubtful look. It didn’t make sense that the Constructicon would poison him after going to this extent to get another session. It made even less sense that Scrapper would hand-feed him treats meant to make him sick. Swindle could make the obvious connection between treats and illness. If it wasn’t Scrapper trying to poison him, that implicated Mixmaster or whoever had made the treats in the first place, and that seemed equally foolish. It was possible that the saboteur didn’t know about Swindle’s self-upgrading; since most mechs didn’t have the sensors to detect anything beyond a good taste, his ability to sense the additional ingredient might be unexpected. But even if he himself didn’t make the connection, surely Scrapper would realize something was wrong.

Possibly, but that balanced on how many treats Scrapper planned on feeding him from that box. Timing made all the difference in sabotage. By Swindle’s calculations, more than five treats would reduce reaction time until it was within the session itself. Anything less than five treats, and the session would finish before his processor plant started rebelling against what he’d fed it. A mech without sensors to catch the tell-tale additive might not make the connection between treats and illness. The saboteur likely wanted him to think it was just a reaction to too-rich energon hitting his tanks all at once.

The merchant weighed pros and cons. He had an idea of just who would want poison him. His theory depended on whether or not Scrapper kept giving him treats, because he didn’t know what the frag was going on if Scrapper was doing this deliberately.

Only one way to find out: he drew it out. He retreated and hid some more, dragging the treat back to his safe spot behind the chair before he ate it. He made Scrapper toss more to lure him out. He nibbled. He sniffed and licked. Wiggling fingers holding treats were eyed with deep suspicion. The Jeep paced and whined, sliding closer to the berth inch by careful inch as the Constructicon’s soothing monologue lulled his wariness, but it was the treats Swindle the pet was after. Close to the floor, he oozed forward to paw at the floor in Scrapper’s direction, frustrated by the energon held just out of reach. Scrapper enticed him closer yet, coaxing him along with tidbits fed in teensy morsels, rewarding him for every inch.

Eventually, forty minutes and twelve treats later, Swindle hopped up on the berth at long last to tramp in a small circle on his hands and knees while Scrapper watched in delight. He then took great pleasure in starting to gag as his tanks signaled intent to purge. “Gluurk. _Hoo_ uuurk! Ulgh- _ulgh_ -glurk- ** _urk!_** ”

“Swindle?” Scrapper shot to his feet and stood there, hands hovering anxiously over the pet mech. 

Swindle coughed thickly and hunched, shoulders shaking as gagging became terrible horking sounds. He grinned around the automatic, semi-pained grimace. Scrapper’s voice held a note of panic he’d never heard before, and it was hilarious. He intentionally opened every stopcock between power plant and his main tanks, letting the tainted energon trigger an the auto-purge on everything without resistance. Scrapper might not have been the one who’d poisoned him, but he’d have no choice but to find out who had. Not if Swindle made a big enough scene, which he thoroughly intended to.

Cleaning up the messes and dealing with the consequences was part of having a pet, after all.

“Swindle, are you -- hold on, wait, don’t -- “ The engineer leapt for a disposal can. “Wait! No no no, wait, not there!”

Luckily for the role he played, it was hard to gag and snicker at the same time. “Bluu _arrrf!_ ” came out instead of laughter as he barfed all over the berth. When the first purge finished, he smacked his lips together and licked his teeth, still making little unhappy noises. “Blech bluh _gak_ -kaf.” The second purge hit, and he retched violently, back struts arching up and vents heaving as his intakes forced opened in ugly, hacking coughs. “Kaf-kaf- **kaf** \-- glaaauurk!”

That wasn’t so pleasant, but the satisfaction he derived from Scrapper’s dismay made it worth it. “What…in Primus’ name…” The Constructicon just stood there, disposal can hanging from his hands as he stared at the puddle spreading across his berth and dripping onto the floor. Spray had gotten on the walls. “Swindle, are you -- of course you’re not okay, but is this -- did you mean to -- “ 

A quick status ping highlighted his power plant’s involuntary purge-reaction for Scrapper, and the larger Decepticon winced. “I…see. I suppose you couldn’t help yourself, then.” He blinked as the ping hit him again, the highlight insistently brighter. No, he hadn’t been able to help himself. Being poisoned wasn’t something mechs did intentionally. 

Not without good reason, anyway. Swindle had one. He’d eaten the tainted treats, and now it was Scrapper’s problem what happened from here. In the meantime, he whimpered and hid under the desk, playing sick toy mech to the hilt. He managed to upchuck some scummy tank cleanser on Scrapper when the engineer tried to draw him. Again, not pleasant, but wonderfully fun. The look in the engineer’s visor was priceless.

He had more fun listening to the argument when Mixmaster came in to take a sample off the floor for analysis. “Well, I didn’t do it! I know exactly what goes into my blends, and there wasn’t anything in them that would cause this.”

“Look at him! He’s obviously not doing it intentionally.” Scrapper winced when Swindle moaned like a dying thing and puked up another few liters of used tank cleanser. The auto-purge emergency scour tasted like soap and wet electricity. Yuck. Swindle was exaggerating his misery because the client hadn’t canceled the session, but yeah, he wasn’t doing this intentionally. 

Deliberately throwing up as messily as possible, over as many things in Scrapper’s room as he could? _That_ was intentional. He’d been curled up on the chair when he’d lost it this time, and Scrapper wasn’t happy. 

Half an hour passed. Scrapper fretted over him while Mixmaster tested his purged energon. 

The merchant could actually see when Mixmaster passed on his test results. Swindle had the pleasure of witnessing Scrapper storm out of the room and return hauling Hook by the crane arm. He truly did have to wonder about the internal dynamics of the Constructicons. Hook looked ready to chew glass, but the surgeon mutely set down the bucket he was carrying and started cleaning the mess up using a squeegee and a mop. There wasn’t a sullen look or single peep of protest for the rest of the session as Scrapper gathered Swindle up and stroked the Jeep’s tires, murmuring soothing nonsense as he coaxed the pet mech into drinking a fresh cube of plain energon.

Swindle made sure to vomit a couple more times, just out of spite.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Pt. 7

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Seven**  
 **[* * * * *]**

 

There were clawmarks on the furniture.

_That_ wasn’t new. Skywarp picked at the armrest of any chair he sat in, and his restless fingers had whittled grooves into the edge of the table the Seekers typically sat at. Fights scored random slices down the couch cushions. Somebody had carved a Decepticon logo into the door. Ravage and his technimal brethren left divots wherever they walked or perched, but even regular mechs left their marks

See, Cybertronians didn’t really have claws like beastformers did. Full-on pointy metal fingertips made regular life difficult outside of combat. It wasn’t as if claws were made of harder alloys than most armor plating. Unless a mech got lucky and hit a joint or something under the plating, having claws in combat usually meant crimped fingertips from rebounding off armor -- or snapped fingers from too much force behind a blow. The sharp points of claws were dangerous weapons, but the weaker, thinner metal gave way. Shaped claws on the end of each finger didn’t work out except for those who were built specifically for clawing through their opponents, and that kind of build was relatively rare. 

What most mechs _did_ have were slides. Blunt fingertips worked most of the time, but the friction pads on their fingers didn’t always have the fine control necessary for small tasks. Things like peeling stickers for detailing, repairwork and construction, or picking dirt out of crevasses. Small, fiddly things of that nature. Everyday, normal things, if not flashy, dangerous combat things. 

Where medics and engineers had fingers that could be uncapped to reveal useful, tinier tools for such things, everyone else got slides. Specialty tools were for specialty frametypes. The rest of them had what the manufacturers had given them. The tops of the last joint of their fingers were made of a harder grade of alloy than their natural metal, like a small patch of protective armor against heat and pressure. Fingers were already vulnerable. Putting them out there grabbing stuff got them damaged, often, so the tip of the finger got that extra layer of protection.

The additional layer of sturdier plating already served that concrete purpose, but it slotted into the finger on a spring-loaded system. When mechs flexed the last joint of their fingers just right, the slides popped out. It gave a thin, sharp edge off the end of their blunt fingers, much like a human fingernail, only less organic and more retractable. After they were done using the slide, relaxing the joint triggered an inbuilt hydraulic system to crank the slides safely back in to avoid cutting anything they didn’t mean to. 

It’d be a useful modification for combat if the hydraulic system weren’t so slagging delicate. When someone -- like, say, Starscream -- popped his slides in combat, it was because that lucky shot at softer tubing or optics. Fighting dirty worked for some mechs, especially flyers who were already at a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat. However, those were also the mechs who tended to file their slides into nasty little points, or reinforce them to where they might as well be claws, because the things didn’t really retract too well anymore.

Regardless of how some mechs used their slides, the tiny mechanisms were the most frequently broken bit of their anatomies in combat. Some Decepticons never learned not to hit hard things with what amounted to flimsy blades. The slides were functional for what they were meant for, and they weren’t meant for the rigors of combat. The Constructicons spent an absurd amount of their time acting as manicurists fixing the blasted things.

And then there were mechs like Skywarp, who painted their slides with glitter for the sheer, baffling craziness of it. He claimed he’d gotten the idea from watching human TV, but nobody bought that excuse. The way he idly picked at anything in his hands betrayed the fact that he just really liked popping his slides at any given opportunity. Primus help the Autobots if he broke a slide in combat, because he went after whoever had done it with murder in his optics.

Therefore, knowing all of this, the scratches on the furniture directed a series of odd looks at the black-and-purple Seeker first. “I didn’t do it!”

“Uh-huh.” Nobody believed him, least of all Thundercracker. The blue Seeker gave him a weary glare. “Other people have to use that couch, you know.”

“I know! I didn’t fragging do it, so get your nosecone outta my afterburners about it!” Skywarp swept the room with a glare of his own. “All of you! I don’t roll around on the floor clawing at chairs, so cut it out with the muttering!” His voice fell. “Bunch of gossips. Fragging walk in the room, and everybody’s gotta stick their noses in my business blaming me for scrap I didn’t recycle.”

Of all mechs, _Skywarp_ was complaining about busybodies. Uh-huh. Thundercracker’s glare turned into a quizzical, rather amused look. Across the room, someone snickered. Skywarp huffed.

Astrotrain walked into the common room right then, and the mystery of the clawmarks at weird heights on the furniture came to an abrupt close. 

Over by the couch, the brightly colored groundframe who’d been dozing between shifts rolled over, shook himself, and proceeded to stretch. By popping his slides and reaching up to the top of the couch to sharpen them.

“...oh.” Thundercracker and Skywarp stared, although Skywarp’s self-righteous expression faded away into bemusement as Swindle arched his back down and purring his motor. Thundercracker just leaned forward, interested. Little skritching sounds filled the stunned-silent room, and Swindle tore long rents down the side of the couch in one luxuriously prolonged pull. Cables creaked. He yawned and worked his fingers to set his slides in and begin again.

Astrotrained pulled a bottle out and spritzed him with water. “No! Bad! Stop that.”

“Hssst!” Surprised, the Jeep scrambled, apparently forgetting his slides were still set into the couch. They caught, and momentum flipped him over on the pet bed he’d been sleeping in. A second spritzing of water took him full in the face, and Swindle yowled in a furious panic. His legs kicked until he struggled loose.

“Bad!” Astrotrain repeated sternly even as the Combaticon transformed and zoomed behind the nearest table in a screech of rubber and affronted dignity. “No scratching the furniture!” the triplechanger called after him. The rest of the common room reset their optics when he stowed the water bottle and continued toward the energon dispenser as if nothing had happened. 

“Training?” Thundercracker asked as he passed.

“Yup.” Astrotrain sounded almost proud of himself. “Humans do it with their cat things. No repair nanites, right? So the critters have to sharpen their toes on stuff.”

Skywarp cocked his head, optics distant while he looked that up. “Not their toes. Claws.”

“Eh, whatever. Same deal.” It was all good to Astrotrain. He got to train the pet, and that was all that mattered.

Except that he hadn’t thought out the limits on the session contract. On-duty time was off-limits, but Swindle had carefully haggled with Astrotrain over the details of how they’d work out a long-term training scenario. Astrotrain was paying out the rockets for an extended, non-session pet training, and they were still figuring out how to make it work. The idea centered around Astrotrain ‘catching’ the pet mech misbehaving repeatedly so he could correct Swindle through spritzing and a swat or two. It would go on until Swindle ‘learned’ better. 

It was up to the merchant to find opportunities to claw things. Any time Astrotrain was also off-duty and Swindle pinged him with a ‘playtime’ marker meant the game was on. The more public, the better, because Astrotrain paid extra for witnesses. The mech did so love to appear in control, powerful, and looked up to.

Which didn’t work out so well for him when Swindle did the obvious thing and found the most public place possible to misbehave: the control bridge. Admittedly, he waited for night. He showed up during the graveyard shift, when the highest ranking officer on deck was Soundwave, but come on. Give him some credit for bearings of steel. It wasn’t Megatron himself, but _Soundwave_ was on deck.

Part of Swindle fully believed he’d be thrown in the brig to rot for a couple weeks in response to this stunt, but the payoff would be worth it. And Soundwave had to be at least peripherally aware that responsibility for Swindle’s behavior in this instance could be redirected to his temporary ‘owner.’ Swindle the pet was a fussy, brainless bitlet in need of training, and it was Astrotrain’s fault for letting him get out of sight.

Heh heh heh. Being irresponsible could be fun.

Swindle set his slides into Megatron’s throne and began to tear the metal. _Skrepe rip rip skreeip._

Incredulous optics stared from every duty station. Nobody could believe what they were seeing. The merchant smirked and narrowed his optics to pleased slits, revving his engine happily as he pulled long scratches down the back of the throne. It was more of a command chair than anything like a throne, but it was a throne nonetheless. The only person besides Megatron who dared to touch it was Starscream. 

And here was Swindle, sharpening his slides on it. Well, more like blunting them, but whatever worked for the client. _Skritch rip skreep rip._

Soundwave stood up. Swindle kept working his fingertips into the throne, keeping half his attention on the superior officer slowly approaching. He was either about to get a beat-down, or --

A request ping hit him. The merchant gleefully sent back an edited copy of his current session contract, details deleted out but the rest approved for public posting as per his agreement with Astrotrain. The mech _wanted_ everyone to know who was in charge of Swindle when a session was on.

Something the triplechanger hadn’t thought all the way through, because he came skidding onto the control bridge like his aft was on fire, already sputtering apologies to the stoic Communications Officer standing by the makeshift scratching post formerly known as Megatron’s throne. The bridge shift burst into laughter at his embarrassment. “Soundwave! Fraggit, I’m -- I looked away for **two minutes** , I didn’t know -- I wouldn’t -- I can fix this, don’t worry, I brought, uh…” Astrotrain sorted through the handful of epoxies and scratch fillers he must have grabbed out of a repair bin during the mad sprint here.

Meanwhile, Soundwave had Swindle scruffed by the spare tire on his back. The Jeep fuffed his muffler and beeped his horn angrily. Astrotrain gave him the helpless glare of someone who’d done this to himself and knew it. The smaller Decepticon flexed his hands and eyed the throne, and the glare turned into an alarmed look. Swindle the toy mech hadn’t learned his lesson, it seemed. Soundwave leveled a coolly disapproving look on the owner who’d released such a poorly trained pet, and Astrotrain smiled weakly. Oops. His bad.

The good news was that Soundwave let Astrotrain off after two hours of fixing the scratch marks and apologizing.

The bad news was that Astrotrain kept spritzing Swindle with the slagging water bottle. The Jeep curled up at the end of his leash and sulked. It got him sprayed more, so he got in a few scratches at the communication station before his owner could haul him away. There was more disapproval from Soundwave. Astrotrain apologized some more. The bridge shift was highly entertained.

All in all, Astrotrain was extremely embarrassed but ridiculously pleased by the results of the training. That was the _really_ good news.

The really _bad_ news was that eventually Megatron was going to find out what happened, and they’d be lucky to escape with a beating.

Oh well. At least Swindle got paid.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	8. Pt. 8

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Eight**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Every problem in the Middle East could be burnt down to one root cause: sand. There was sand _everywhere_. It got into _everything_. Local humans hating each other because of water, religion, resources, past history, or oil were an inevitable symptom caused by the real problem: sand.

As much as Swindle loved the deals to be found in petty tyrants of small oil fiefs in the Middle East, he absolutely hated when he had to go visit the slaggers. All the luxury overly-rich idiots could afford, and they still decided to live in sandy locales. Swindle wasn’t one for putting down different species, but he made an exception for humans, especially of the grandiose variety that didn’t get the frag out of the desert when they had the chance. If anyone needed proof that humans were a species of lesser intelligence? He offered Exhibit A: the obscenely rich King And Emperor For Life of WahallaWherever, land of desert and abundant oil reserves, who nevertheless _still lived there_.

Who wouldn’t concede to meeting Swindle anywhere else but his dusty, sand-infested palace. Out of security concerns, apparently, as he was currently at war with his next door neighbor, Emperor And King For Life of OmbabaThatOverThere. Probably because of the sand.

Frag, _Swindle_ came back from the Middle East ready to start a war or three. “Don’t even **start** with me,” he snarled at Vortex as he stiffly exited Astrotrain’s hold. The screechy scratch of sand in his joints accompanied every step. His fellow Combaticon paused, taken aback, and the merchant glared at him. “If what you have to say has anything outside of official orders involved, turn around and walk away. Right now.”

It might have been the way the Jeep twitched when he said it, or the fact that Vortex had never seen his smallest teammate look at him without at least a touch of fear, but the interrogator took a step back. Sadist didn’t mean unintelligent. “Long Haul sent me to redirect you to the correct storage bay,” he said in a failed attempt not to sound defensive. “Mixmaster wants the test stats on the oil, and Bonecrusher’s told me to help unload.”

“Tell me which one, they’re transmitted, and we don’t need your help,” Swindle snapped in quick reply. “Now go away.”

“Uh.” Vortex was likely about to say something about orders, but the look on Swindle’s face stopped him. “You...sure? That’s a lot of barrels to unload by yourself.”

“Just do it,” Astrotrain said, sounding one step from laughing. “He’s got sand in places I don’t even have.”

Swindle, if possible, tensed further. His optics took on a hue that resembled that of the warning colors on poison frogs. “Whom do I have to kill,” he ground out quietly, and the squeal of sand in his jaw mechanisms could be clearly heard, “to get this job finished and done with? Because I will do it with a smile.”

Vortex’s visor went just a little wide. “Is this a bad time to mention that Onslaught’s been asking about -- “

“ **I will murder you and sell the body.** ” For all the intense, sincere madness packed into his voice, Swindle kept the volume low. Conversational. The smile he wore was disarmingly friendly to match it. “This time, Megatron won’t ever find out, and I will smelt your personality components myself.”

There was just something about that threat being said by an Autobot-sized groundframe that shouldn’t have been that threatening. However, since Swindle had proven that he could and would sell his own combiner team, following through on the murder threat really was threatening. He might be a small mech, but he’d walked away from a battle that’d taken out the rest of the Combaticons. Walked away, and profited.

Vortex: Experienced interrogator, sadistic killer, and thoroughly intimidated by a merchant. “I’ll tell Bonecrusher you can handle it.”

“You do that.”

The helicopter didn’t run out the door, but he did look over his shoulder before leaving as if making sure he wasn’t being followed. Perhaps he felt the weight of Swindle’s optics on the back of his helm. 

Forewarned by Vortex’s axed message, Swindle took the long way around to his quarters. Whatever Onslaught wanted to ask him could wait until the conmech relocated an ounce of his usual suave self, because otherwise he’d end up cursing in Arabic. As satisfying as that could be, Arabic curses had a tendency toward multiplying exponentially for every time he cited camels, fleas, or past ancestors. The flamboyant finale would likely involved the many ways he condemned Onslaught to losing his paintjob in a flogging of phallic objects during a plague of irritating insects. That would be cathartic, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to being sand-free.

Swindle really, really wanted to get rid of the sand.

Needless to say, this was not the time he wanted an offer to drop into his message queue. No matter how generous the fee offered, a shower beat it out today. Although the mech it was from made his optics flicker. He would never have thought Soundwave, of any Decepticon, might want to play owner. Didn’t he have Cassettes for that? 

They were more symbiotes than pets, so maybe not. Other than the experienced handling done by a professional carrier mech, Swindle couldn’t recall Soundwave laying a hand on his bunch before. In public, anyway, which didn’t eliminate whatever might happen in the Comm. Officer’s quarters, but Swindle couldn’t imagine anyone like Ratbat or Ravage stooping to the role of pet. 

It took effort to collect some smoothness, but Swindle sent back a polite rejection. He’d been out of the base for a month, and he hadn’t taken a client in four. He just hadn’t been in the mood.

A second offer dropped into his queue right as he opened the door to his quarters. “Thundercracker,” he sighed. “Of course.” It wouldn’t be a return to base without his most reliable client wondering when he’d stop canceling their scheduled appointments. He’d deferred them indefinitely with a percentage off proviso, but Thundercracker didn’t want the sessions to cost less. The Seeker wanted the sessions to be regular.

Thundercracker had gotten back into the groove of having someone to care for. Swindle had been fending off the mech in the common room before he left for the Middle East, the Seeker missed having a pet so much. Swindle liked the attention and all, but he had kind of hoped Skywarp would go through with the muttered comment and catch Thundercracker a human. They were messy critters and wouldn’t last long, but caring for one of them would get the blue Seeker off his back for a while.

Oh, well. So much for that hope. He sent back a more personalized rejection, citing that, “I’m flattered by the interest, but the usual fee’s not enough. I’m hitting the washrack and my berth, in that order. Try again next week.” He should still be in the base, then. Some pampering might be nice.

Oddly, Soundwave sent another message not a minute after Swindle replied to Thundercracker. The Jeep had just sat down on the floor to take a brush to whatever he could reach, pre-washrack, because the only thing worse than sand in his upholstery was mud. He blinked at nothing and paused to open the message.

The previous offer had doubled, and Soundwave had added a brief message: “For your trouble, in consideration that the session interrupts off-duty time.”

That was a very, _very_ nice offer. It raised Swindle’s suspicions about just what kind of pet play a mech like Soundwave would be interested in. That whole telepathy thing made him squirm to begin with, and on top of that, seeing this kind of price tag being pushed at him…

He hesitated but sent back a second polite refusal.

Thundercracker’s reply interrupted another start at working on his interior seats. The Seeker had added a digit on to their pre-negotiated price. 

“Persistent slagger,” Swindle chuckled to himself, fondly regarding the number. “Sorry, dear ‘master.’ Not tonight.”

“I’m filthy,” he told the blue Seeker in a candid message. “You don’t want me in your lap right now. I’d get grit in your gears just by being in the same room.”

Shaking his head, he went back to his brush and the slagging sand, but he didn’t have more than a few seconds of peace before a message marked as _Urgent_ plinked straight to the head of his message queue. 

His first thought was that Mixmaster had found something wrong with the oil. He’d have to go back to the desert to confront the King And Emperor of that wasteland sandpit, and he didn’t _want_ to go back, and -- “What in the name of Almighty Allah is wrong with you, Soundwave?”

“I have been informed,” the message read, “that you are in a state of disarray exceeding normal standards. Payment may be prorated depending on the degree of accuracy in this information. Respond immediately.”

He actually leaned back on his heels, he side-eyed the message so hard. Not even addressing what the message offered in neat little rows of numbers at the bottom, how the _frag_ had Soundwave found out how dirty he was, and _why_ did payment hinge on that fact?!

Wait, Soundwave governed Decepticons communications on or off Earth. Right, okay. That made sense. Swindle had just replied to Thundercracker’s message. It didn’t take the brightest mind around to make the connection there between Comm. Officer and intercepted message. That still didn’t explain why, by Primus’ precious undercarriage, Swindle’s level of filth meant Soundwave was all up in his business!

The merchant did have to admit that the price list was pretty tasty.

Pure curiosity brought him to his feet. And greed. Greed was involved as well. The angle was bad, but he managed to turn enough to snap a decent picture down his body using his in-case-of-blackmail holdout camera. He pulled a face when he saw it, because he was covered in dusty and scratches. Ugh. So much sand.

He uploaded it anyway and sent it off with the question, “How much is this worth, in your estimation?”

Soundwave sent back a price quote. Swindle looked at it. 

When he recovered, he gave it another look.

Had it been anyone but Soundwave, that number would have been the equivalent of an undignified, wheezing, “Give me that. Right now. **Now**.”

Had it been anyone but Soundwave, that number would have had Swindle saying, “It’s yours!”

Fear of telepathy and a scam made him hesitate a whole minute before agreeing.

Greed would kill him yet.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	9. Pt. 9

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Nine**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

For the first time in Swindle’s life, he was overjoyed at being blackmailed. “So sorry,” he oozed at his smarmiest in a message to Soundwave, “but something unavoidable has come up. I feel just **terrible** about canceling this way. Perhaps you can contact me when I reopen for sessions in the future. Again, my apologies!”

He wasn’t sorry in the slightest, he didn’t feel terrible, and he really hoped Soundwave took the hint about waiting until _he_ felt like having a session. Pressure, even in the form of increasing amounts of money being flung at him, didn’t make Swindle a happy mech. If Soundwave _did_ contact him for a future session, the merchant had every intention of finding a reason not to take his bid. The vibes the Communications Officer gave off weirded Swindle out. Also: telepathy. Swindle didn’t like even the _idea_ of telepathy.

The only truth in the message he sent off to Soundwave was how unavoidable the cancellation was. Extortion was like that. Unlike most, however, this blackmail had excellent timing. 

“Alright, we’re good,” he said, refocusing back on the Reflector components. “Do I have time to at least rinse my fragging plating off?”

They smiled at his irritation. “Half an hour.”

“Oh, you’re so gracious.” Forget sarcasm; he had no time for that. It came out absent-mindedly courteous as he made a beeline for the nearest washrack. _So much sand._ He hated sand. Make the sand go away.

One of the Reflector components followed him to the door of the washrack as if to supervise, but Swindle didn’t care. Let Spectro watch him scrub sand loose. He wasn’t going to try and run. He’d been searching for the evidence to clear his name of Onslaught’s conspiracy ever since Shockwave had arrested him, millions of years ago. Back then, he’d gotten tangled up in Onslaught’s attempt to overthrow Shockwave, but Swincle been a contact, a _supplier_ , not actively one of the conspirators. Those had been Onslaught, Blast Off, and Vortex. Technically Brawl as well, but Swindle had always assumed that Brawl was hired brawn, not an active participant in the brain side of things. He and Brawl were the mercenary side of the conspiracy, and Swindle didn’t include himself in the overthrow attempt at all. He’d just been unlucky enough to get caught during a merchandise drop to Onslaught.

Shockwave had condemned them all in a blanket sentence, either assuming they were equally involved or not caring if they weren’t. Hence how a merchant had gotten a hardcore prison sentence alongside full combatants. He just had to get Shockwave to recognize that fact and reopen the trial with him as a separate case. For that, he needed to be able to show that he hadn’t involved except as a supplier, but that had proven difficult.

Now, at long last, Reflector had the evidence to reduce Swindle’s sentence. It wouldn’t clear him from involvement in Onslaught’s stupid conspiracy, but anything to put a degree of separation between his past self and the chain of events leading to the Detention Centre? Gracefully giving in to Reflector’s demand for a pet session right now was totally worth the possibility of getting on Soundwave’s bad side. Swindle was _happy_ to pay Reflector’s chosen price for that evidence. Bring on the blackmail. 

Soundwave’s return message came through as Swindle finished power-spraying the worst of the grit out from his hip joints. “Query: reason for cancellation timing, client, or extenuating circumstances?”

The Jeep hesitated. Conning a telepath and communication specialist required a delicate balance of white lies and bald-faced honesty. He had to make his excuse plausible, because if Soundwave followed up, Swindle’s reasoning had to be airtight. He picked his words carefully. “A little from every category. I’m very tired. You’re intimidating,” no Decepticon could be insulted by that choice of phrasing, “and I’d prefer not to take a first session with you while I’m not at my best.” Truth. Careful, bare truth that he prayed the creepy slagger wouldn’t ask him to elaborate on. “The circumstances did come out of nowhere, and I can’t accommodate both you and it.” Again, truth. He couldn’t take two clients at a time. “Again, my regrets. We can negotiate another time, Soundwave.”

Not if he could wriggle out of it, but it didn’t hurt to be polite to a potential customer. That _had_ been a nice offer.

He sent the message and shook his armor free of excess solvent. It’d scoured the worst of the dust and grit from him, and he stretched blissfully. Joints swiveled without the grating feel of sand. “Much better,” he commented to his watcher. Spectro smirked and beckoned him out, and the conmech surrendered. So much for trying to cage a few more minutes under the spray by getting the mech to chat. “Fine, fine…”

The Reflector components were some of the few Decepticons smaller than him, but they were specialists. Unlike him, they didn’t have a grounder altmode to make the comparisons to Autobots prevalent. Swindle personally didn’t mind that they were small and sometimes eerily quiet, fading into the background to observe everything that happened around them. He understood the business angle after working with them for a while, and he never made the common mistake of underestimating them because of their size. Like him, they compensated for their lack of bulk. Instead of firepower, they gathered information and used it to brutal affect. Soundwave had his communication skills; Reflector had his images. In their own field of specialty, they couldn’t be beaten.

A few minutes later as Spectro walked him to Reflector’s quarters, Soundwave’s reply dropped into Swindle’s queue. “Understood. Future negotiations will happen further in advance to desired time period.”

The merchant squinted one optic. That sounded somewhat ominous, but at least Soundwave had gotten his hint about rushing last-minute offers through.

It was something best thought about later. Right now, he had Spectro, Spyglass, and Viewfinder to concern himself with. He stepped into Reflector’s quarters and sniffed, surprised by the immediate strong waft of chemicals. Paint stripper, if his receptors served him right, along with several varieties of paint, soap, polish, and at least one type of wax. 

“Done some home decorating?” he asked, surveying the changes since he’d last been here. 

Viewfinder sat behind the desk, which had been moved to face one of the berths. “You like it?” he asked dryly. “We don’t care. Sit down and be quiet.”

A finger pointed imperiously at the berth, as if Spectro’s shove to the small of his back wasn’t enough. “The usual rules, I take it?” The threat of the evidence held over his head should have made him nervous, but having it within his reach made Viewfinder’s usual cocky attitude so much easier to tolerate. This was a gloriously easy price to pay! “No noise unless requested, no pictures without a personal-use only contract, and keep it PG, fellas.” That last warning was only for appearance’s sake, as Reflector would never trust him with that kind of personal ammunition.

Although Swindle got the feeling that the gloves were off, tonight. Spyglass hovered near the desk as he strode over, and the little mech’s optics gleamed. Even Viewfinder’s smug certainty about their hold over him didn’t cover how he swallowed when the Jeep sat down across from him. Things were shaping up to be outside the norm, tonight, and he wanted to make sure everybody knew where the limits were.

“That acceptable?” Swindle asked, and he put an edge on his salesmech smile. 

“Of course,” Reflector murmured in unison. “Usual rules.”

Not one of them were watching his face. Swindle shook his head slightly, bemused, but Reflector’s interest in him had never been about pet sessions, per se. All three components liked the idea of someone who could be played with like a toy: dressed up, posed, admired, and directed with complete assurance of obedience. They really wanted more of a nonsentient model doll, except that Spectro alone did seem to like platonic cuddling once the other two got him into something exotically frilly or complicated. The one time he’d agreed to be tied up in a corset, Spectro had taken over the rest of the session just to pluck the laces and pet the thing as if to feel how it laid over his grill. Swindle had decided he had a clothing fetish.

Which was fine by him. If Reflector wanted him to be completely silent and allow them to work, it meant he got to sit here and soak up attention. And money. Or, in this case, freedom from a prison sentence he’d never quite deserved. 

So Swindle looked down at the desk full of cleaning utensils, cloth, a buffer, sticks, paint cans, mysterious bottles, a few brushes, an airbrush and pump -- and didn’t care. As long as they didn’t physically hurt him, he was game to play whatever they wanted. They’d never violated the rules before, and he doubted they’d do it now, even when he probably couldn’t protest for fear of losing that evidence he so badly needed.

It didn’t come to that. Viewfinder took up one of his hands in both of his own. Spyglass knelt on the berth beside him and prodded his shoulder tire. Spectro took up position at the desk to start handing over things as needed, because apparently tonight wasn’t Spectro’s turn. Swindle subsided into a watchful sort of peace, aware of everything happening around him but absorbing the sensation of being their focal point. He dimmed his optics and observed. 

Fetishes had always held a strange fascination for Swindle. The idea of an object becoming someone’s center of focus reminded him a lot of his own greed. Greed for a thing seemed comparable, right? Obsessing over something to the point where it became the most important part of anything, sexual or otherwise, struck a chord with him. He could almost picture himself having a money fetish. It wasn’t exactly the same, but…it teased at the edge of comprehension.

He wanted to understand every fetish he encountered, because understanding the mindset meant he could recognize it in himself. It also meant he could exploit it in other people. There was the simple fact that he found fetishes interesting, too. Swindle liked people. He liked talking to people, and he liked interacting with people. Find out what made them tick was good business sense and built good rapport. He could spend hours wrapping his head around someone else’s mindset.

He liked being the center of attention even more than he liked understanding a new thing. Even if it was just parts of him being focused on, it was still attention.

Viewfinder focused on his hands. Total, complete focus on his hands. Smaller hands held them, turning them palm upward to study the curl of the fingers for a full minute before turning them back over. The side of Viewfinder’s forefingers stroked over the back of Swindle’s hands, sweeping over them from wrist joint to knuckles as if assessing them somehow. Thumbs pressed down on the knuckle joints, pushing in between them and sliding down to the tips of the fingers. The slide mechanisms were coaxed into moving, in and out, and Viewfinder leaned down to look closer. 

Everything could be heard in the silence. The hitch and catch of Reflector’s fans were far more obvious than they’d probably like. Swindle held his silent stillness, just watching the mech manipulate his fingers one by one, and he found himself weirdly hypnotized by the intensity of Viewfinder’s focus. 

First, the mech’s slightly smaller, pale fingers cleaned his dark digits. Wrapped in absorbent padding and soaked in a powerful cleanser, the sticks dipped into his knuckle joints. A few rapid stirring motions twisting back and forth, and they came out gritty with sand. The padding quickly became grimy with dirt-laden grease after only a couple swabs into each joint. Viewfinder used forefinger and thumb to bend Swindle’s finger at every joint, switching sticks when the grunge build-up met disapproval by some standard only the Reflector components understood. He moved on from each knuckle after the padding came out clean and not a moment sooner. The patience that required was a sign of either care or obsession.

Spectro continually wrapped and supplied more sticks, disposing of the soiled ones while Viewfinder worked so intently, but he seemed to have another duty. While the other Reflector component worked, Spectro leaned over the desk with a small camera. 

A camera using a camera. Swindle smiled at that and didn’t move as a cascade of personal-use contracts pinged into his queue. The images had absolutely no value to him outside this room, except that he had an inkling of how certain fetish mechs might snatch them up given the opportunity. He tagged them as open for future business negotiations and signed off on them as they poured in. Pictures focused on one fingertip. Pictures pulling back to take in the whole finger, the entire hand, the way Viewfinder’s hands cradled the larger, darker hand between them. Pictures of the grime in the knuckle seams. Pictures of a clean joint peeking out from behind finger plating. Pictures taken in quick sequences, snapping the progress of a stick sliding into the joint, moving from one side to the other, and emerging from the other side. 

Meanwhile, Reflector’s third component had been busy doing his own thing. Spyglass had started in on Swindle’s wheels. He balanced on his knees beside the merchant and looked, really _looked_ at the tires on his shoulders. He edged closer, not for intimacy but to bring his face closer until his optics reflected in the hubcaps and lit the rubber a dull reddish black. His mouth opened to suck in deep, slow breaths of the air near Swindle’s shoulder, pulling the air over his tongue so the chemical receptors could catch everything. The tires smelled strongly of rubber, and a faint, scorched scent came from sand ingrained into the treads from days of Swindle driving through the desert. It was organic and unclean, an alien scent for a Cybertronian. 

Spyglass leaned fractionally closer, ventilation system protesting as he forced too much air through by panting short bursts in, but he wanted more of that exotic blend of automobile and organic, familiar and alien. His hands rose, no longer prodding. He ground the heel of one hand into the rubber to test how much give there was, and then he began to grope the tire.

The Jeep wasn’t sure what to think about that at first. Swindle uneasily tolerating the slow squeeze as Spyglass felt along his shoulder tire. The small mech shuffled around on the berth to poke at his other shoulder tire, curiously massaging at his spare back-mounted tire in passing. He carefully didn’t flinch away, but he didn’t understand what Spyglass was doing. The squeezing, stroking exploration made no sense. He tensed, hoping none of his tires would get popped if the little fingers turned to raking into the rubber instead of merely squishing it.

Eventually, it occurred to Swindle that the Reflector component was taking his time, not building up to harder activity. He still didn’t understand, not quite, but he thought…well, a tire fetish wasn’t much different than a hand fetish, if he thought about it objectively. He relaxed and let up on his parking brakes.

That unlocked the axles, and Spyglass made a soft, pleased sound as the tire under his hands spun. He savored the odd feel of textured, foreign material in firm squeezes that unintentionally mirrored how Viewfinder had moved on to manipulating Swindle’s fingers. Light fingers pinched gently, sliding down the merchant’s hands as if memorizing the tapered shape. They were rarely still like this, and they were more frequently used for speaking gestures rather than used for manual labor. Viewfinder’s fingertips pinched between every knuckle and rolled the joints slowly from side to side, while Spyglass cupped the curve of a wheel and rubbed the palm of his hand into the tread. Viewfinder dragged the pad of one thumb up the back of Swindle’s hand, flipped it over, and pushed it into his palm. Spyglass firmly massaged where rubber met metal, testing the rims of his tires.

The Jeep dropped his expression to neutral, but it wouldn’t have mattered what his face gave away. None of the Reflector components were looking at that part of him, and they paid specifically for his silence. When the paint stripper and the hubcaps came out, Swindle showed no reaction. He sat stoically through Viewfinder bathing his hands, taking the black paint off right down to the bare metal, and Spyglass -- eh-heh. Swindle didn’t look, but he was fairly sure Spyglass was using his _teeth_ to loosen lugnuts and regular bolts alike. The sucking, nibbling pressure went straight from tire to shoulder joint in a surprising bolt of sensation, not to mention how it ran up his back struts when Spyglass went after his spare tire. 

He could almost feel the excitement building around him. Viewfinder bent over his hands, single-mindedly removing the last black streak. Spyglass licked his tires, the broad swipe of his tongue flat against the tread pattern. The mounting fan rate from Reflector peaked when the Jeep’s current set of plain hubcaps were removed. From the corner of his optic, Swindle thought he could see a stack of what looked like different sets of hubcaps waiting to be tried on him: fancier, older, rusted, LED-embedded, jewel-encrusted, and chrome. 

For the moment, however, Spyglass seemed intent on exploring what was exposed now. He spread his hands over the exposed tire hubs and leaned his forehelm against the rubber to stare, up close and personal.

Viewfinder nearly made Swindle jump where he sat. After stripping the paint off, things escalated from careful maintenance to obvious obsession in the space of a couple seconds. Visor dimming, the smaller mech lifted Swindle’s now paint-free hand and, venting hard and erratic, opened his mouth to curl his tongue around one finger. He drew it into his mouth. It was hot, overheating hot. 

Taken completely off-guard by the sudden change, Swindle sat very still. His optics blinking dumbly as wet heat licked over every inch of that finger, cleaning it and sucking even the taste of paint stripper away. The hand on his wrist shook, barely enough to be noticeable. Since it was his fingers being suckled, slow and savored, Swindle noticed. He noticed just how hot Reflector was running, even the component taking picture after picture. 

Spectro was everywhere, taking pictures from every angle, and Swindle thought he understood. Hubcaps, rubber, close-ups of treads as Spyglass clawed into the pattern; lips closed around knuckle joints, teeth slicking off a fingertip, and Viewfinder’s intent, lost expression as he put the first coat of primer on with the airbrush. This was what made Reflector tick. The silence clouded into a physical pressure on the merchant, and he stayed quiet and still. There was a strange satisfaction to be had in watching their compulsions. He found himself fascinated.

Viewfinder put on the first layer and switched hands, and the conmech flexed his freed hand. The fingers curled and extended until the joints strained. Viewfinder froze, visor wide. Swindle pushed his hand down against air as if stretching out a joint ache. His wrist and knuckles formed sharp angles while his index finger dipped below the rest in a delicate contrast. 

Spectro sprang into a frantic clicking of camera flashes, Viewfinder moaned, and teeth nipped his back tire as Spyglass started fitting on a new hubcap. 

Swindle smiled. This was the best blackmail ever held over his head.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	10. Pt. 10

**Script Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning to Audience:** Pet play  
 **Show Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity Stage:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Ten**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Swindle stopped dead in the airlock from the launch tower as the message pinged his inbox. “Not again.” He was either being courted or stalked. He couldn’t decide which was creepier.

He shut off his optics long enough to draw in a steadying breath. Not that it helped, since Thrust immediately tripped over him. His sense of calmness went out the airlock as he almost kissed the floor.

“The frag -- ?!” The Conehead stumbled, caught his balance, and turned to scowl. “Stupid groundpounder! Watch where you plant your grubby feet!”

“Charming as always, Thrust,” Swindle said, smiling on the outside and hip-deep in exasperation inside. “No wonder Megatron sent you with me to persuade our Comrade Soviets that an outpost in Siberia would be a mutually beneficial venture. I can’t believe he put a choke order on you, what with that silver tongue of yours.” He strolled past the jet while Thrust was still sputtering indignantly. “Don’t let me get in the way of the first conversation you’ve been allowed in weeks. By all means, go report **our** success to Starscream.” He would just love to see how Thrust tried to spin that report to feature one Conehead, no speaking allowed. The Soviets had been impressed by Swindle’s silent bodyguard.

Almost as much as they’d been impressed by the bribes he’d brought to the table. That still hadn’t gotten him anything but a bare concrete garage to park in for the weeks he’d been in and around Moscow, however. The humans had the weird belief that Cybertronians with vehicle modes were comfortable in parking lots or on air strips. Swindle had at least gotten a roof over his head, most nights. Thrust had frozen his tailfins off exposed to winter weather out in the nearest airstrip.

Toward the end, Swindle had been piling on the confident salesmech attitude to detract attention from the fact that he sported a thin layer of grime everywhere. His undercarriage was a mess of salt and sand from the ice-slick roads, and he _itched_. A small animal of some kind had sought shelter on his motor while he’d recharged, leaving bits of fur and unpleasant squishy things he was afraid were droppings up out of reach under his hood. Two of the highest KGB officers had ridden inside him frequently, and as a result, his interior stank of cigarette smoke and human sweat. 

In short, Swindle felt disgusting inside and out.

Soundwave messaged him again, marking it _’Urgent’_. It seemed he hadn’t responded quickly enough for the Comm. Officer’s tastes. Yeah, well, Soundwave would just have to learn patience. As little as Swindle wanted to strain their professional relationship with a personal issue, Soundwave’s timing was ridiculously poor.

“I’m not in the mood for a session,” the merchant responded curtly. He was in the mood to drown himself in solvent until his upholstery no longer reeked of tobacco and shit.

Three more messages hit his inbox. Soundwave skipped actual subject lines and just put increasing monetary amounts in the header.

...the mech did know how to get his attention. 

Swindle hesitated for approximately thirty seconds. That was thirty seconds of greed versus gross feeling. For once, the greed lost. “No. I’m sorry for my current condition causing you inconvenience, but if you check our previous correspondence, you’ll notice I expressed a preference for scheduling sessions in advance.” Polite, short, and to the point. Business was as business was, and this wasn’t business. This was -- slag, he didn’t know. 

Soundwave throwing away his savings, apparently. “Name price.”

That wasn’t a message; that was the Comm. Officer himself rounding the corner ahead of him and blocking the corridor. Swindle backpedaled. “Soundwave! Such a, uh, pleasure to see you!” Emergency! Activate automatic smarm while searching for escape route!

Long legs closed the distance between them despite how the smaller Decepticon backed away. “Swindle. Session desired.” The impassive visor swept him from head to foot. Was it Swindle’s imagination, or did the red darken? “Name price for rental of pet into Soundwave’s care for entirety of day.”

Retreat became sputtering. “24 hours?! Are you kidding me? No! I’m due to patrol in 12!”

“Arrangements will be made,” Soundwave insisted. That visor looked him over again, and it lingered on the salt-crusted wheelrims and spattered undercarriage. Swindle wanted to turn away to hide the mess, but Soundwave lifted his visor to pin him with another intense look. “Price for pet?”

Purple optics gazed up at the officer, one slightly wider than the other and both a little wild around the edges. “I’m tired, I’m grubby, and even if I **were** in the mood, I don’t **do** sessions that long. Really, Soundwave, this just isn’t the time.” That might have been a bit harsh, but no meant no. Politeness hadn’t worked so far, after all. 

Although he tried not to loudly think bad words about the mech’s timing and tenacity. A smart Decepticon didn’t have thoughts about fraggers who didn’t shove off and die instead of pestering innocent Jeeps. Not when around a telepath who could order an unthinking merchant into barnacle duty for the rest of eternity. 

Speaking of unpleasant duties, it struck him as odd that Soundwave _wasn’t_ threatening him. Badgering him, being a pain in the aft, and getting uncomfortably into his personal space, but not threatening him.

Swindle edged to the right. Soundwave stayed directly in his face. He edged to the left. Bam. Wall of Soundwave. Soundwave everywhere. 

“Set price,” the Comm. Officer insisted again, ignoring his arguments.

The Jeep edged one way and back the other. Soundwave continued looming over him.

“I don’t want to!” Swindle barked finally. “I’m not interested, thank you!”

Soundwave froze, and the conmech hide a flinch. Primus, but he felt like an amateur! Letting anyone get under his plating that way was a newbie move. Rudeness did not culture a good working environment, especially rudeness to a superior officer in a notoriously violent military hierarchy. He opened his mouth to spout the usual soothing words of insincere apologies, but Soundwave beat him to speaking.

“Query: Swindle objects to Soundwave specifically as client?”

He eyed the taller, bulkier, higher-ranking, telepathic, and singularly manipulative mech. “Of course not! Why would you think that?” That sounded brittle to his own audios, but he projected jovial friendliness as hard as he could to cover his fear. “Soundwave! You know me. You know how much I like having you as a client.” For weaponry, specialty parts for the Cassetticons, and information. Not so much for this.

The not-quite-lie got a penetrating look as if that red visor could peer right into his mind. It was entirely possible that’s what Soundwave was doing. “Understood.” Swindle had the feeling he really did understand. “Query: would presentation of contract of limitations and agenda of intentions make session more appealing?”

He opened his mouth to respond and left it open for a moment as he gave that some real thought. “...yes,” he decided cautiously. “If,” he added, “I wrote the contract.” Soundwave couldn’t block every one of his business channels. If the mech put his name to a contract, it’d given Swindle leverage on Cybertron and Earth if the contract were broken. 

Keeping Soundwave out of his head and sworn not to harm him in any way would certainly do a lot to reconcile him to the idea of a session. He still wasn’t convinced, however. He really was tired, and increasingly grumpy the longer this dragged out, and --

“Query,” Swindle backed up until his tire hit the wall as Soundwave advanced on him, “given agreement through contract and agenda, time limit negotiable?” The merchant stiffened, ready to deny that one flat, but Soundwave raised a hand to cut him off. “Given adequate compensation for inconvenience and extended session.”

The same moment he said that, the blocky blue mech updated his latest offer in Swindle’s message queue. The merchant twitched. Then he realized those last two zeros weren’t after a decimal point like he’d assumed because he was a rational mech, and his world abruptly tipped on end as the numbers recalculated. This time, Swindle wheezed.

He had to beat back greed with reality. “I -- while that’s definitely a, uh, **generous** offer!” He’d be able to afford Tahiti. Buying it, not visiting on vacation. “I truly am in need of recharge and, well, look at me.” He spread his arms in a helpless shrug. “I need more than a quick trip to the washracks to clean myself up. As much as I wish I could accept your offer,” more like a demand, but he was totally okay with demands under that kind of price tag, “I’m in no shape for a session tonight. Even if I didn’t look like this, I just don’t have the energy to stay awake for the next 24 hours!”

Although now he really wished he could. He could hack accounts and steal money, but it made sense that Soundwave would be better at it. Communications specialist, after all. The way he cut through human programs, he had to have lots of human cash on hand. The stuff was worthless on the galactic market, but Earth currency featured big in Swindle’s current sales. All it cost Soundwave was the time and effort to make his theft untraceable, which was invaluable to Swindle’s deals.

Soundwave reached out, waiting half a second to give him time to dodge, but the merchant stood his ground this time. A big hand settled on his shoulder, and the thumb rubbed over the gritty layer of dried winter slush near the wheel well. “Aware of condition. Soundwave specifically interested in disarrayed pet. Wishes to clean, care for, and,” a fraction of a hesitation, “rest with.”

Swindle’s wheel jolted under careful fingers. “You want me to sleep with you.” If Soundwave had any of that telepathy turned on him at that moment, he was probably deafened by the resounding _’NO!’_ blasting from his head. “I don’t do that. Ask someone else to -- “

“Assumption incorrect.” That almost sounded rushed, Soundwave interrupted him so fast. “Soundwave desires to hold pet in recharge.” The red visor darkened, glanced away for a second, and returned as if it hadn’t happened. “Pet: clean, fed, and recharging in peace. No sexual connotations. Caring for pet is relaxing. Soundwave: enjoys.” The hand on the Jeep’s shoulder squeezed slowly, thumb rubbing in the grime again, but it released when Soundwave seemed to realize what he was doing. “Session agenda to include one standard period of recharge and one shorter rest period. More acceptable upon condition of pet after secondary maintenance completed.”

Swindle stared at him. He looked down at himself, at the dirt and bit of fur stuck in his grill. His vents were full of the smell of spilt vodka, stale cigarette smoke, and unwashed hairless ape. It had never occurred to him to wonder why the naggingly persistent offers kept coming in only when he returned to base in this condition. 

“Let me get this straight,” he said somewhat numbly. “You want to clean me up, feed me, let me sleep curled up beside you,” the hand that’d been touching him closed into a loose fist while the fingers worked, and a bewildered smile crossed his face as he watched it, “polish me up, and tuck me in for naps.”

For a mech with a face mask, visor, and not a single loose joint in his body, Soundwave certainly seemed to squirm a teensy bit right then. “Agenda available for further negotiations,” he suggested. “Revisions possible during session.”

Swindle looked down to sigh and drag a hand down his face. He was slagging exhausted. 

When he looked up, however, those pretty purple optics were at their widest and most spark-melting. “24 hours is a **long** time,” he hedged, artfully reluctant, because he smelled a desperate customer under that cover of scary-aft Comm. Officer. “I don’t know…”

Tahiti wasn’t going to buy itself, after all.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	11. Part 11

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Eleven**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Negotiations took another half an hour. Soundwave, as it turned out, couldn’t be suckered in by Swindle simpering. Picking at the dirt in his tires while looking adorable worked to soften the mech up, but not straight-out simpering. The merchant emerged from the bargaining process with a contract of limitations but without enough money to buy Tahiti. A few islands, sure, but not the whole enchilada. That was somewhat disappointing.

At least he got the contract. Swindle’s cute grubbiness lost momentum with Soundwave when he put his foot down over the Cassetticons. Soundwave agreed to the clause against using his telepathy readily enough, but he didn’t like the insistence on his dock being empty. Well, tough. Swindle insisted. Entertaining the Comm. Officer was fine and dandy, but no way in the Pit would Swindle play pet while that nest of punks and predators seethed inside the mech. They’d probably watch and comment the whole while. The idea alone creeped the Jeep out.

“Astrotrain pays extra when he takes me for walks,” he pointed out quite reasonably. “Bringing me out in public costs because I’m giving a free show to everyone. You want me to give a free pass to a bunch of symbiotic-connection **participants**? Not going to happen without cash up front.”

Soundwave looked down upon him, visor narrow. “Price already exorbitant.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” The sweetest smile spread across the Jeep’s face. “I’ll just head to the washracks, shall I?” No rubber off his tires if Soundwave decided not to go through with the deal.

No such luck. The taller Decepticon put up a hand, asking him to wait. The red visor darkened, a gleam of white traveling from left to right across it as Soundwave evidently spoke with his mob. When he focused on Swindle again, that visor held a calculating look. “Proviso accepted if Swindle agrees to remain in room for full 24 hour time period.” 

The merchant sighed and nodded. “All 24 hours.” 24 hours locked in a room with Soundwave. Someone get the trampoline so he could jump for joy.

After signing the contract, they went their separate ways. Swindle needed half an hour to double-check that the funds had transferred and weren’t traceable. Stolen money was all well and good, but money that could be tracked back to him was useless. Soundwave needed to ‘make preparations,’ a vague phrase that alarmed the merchant. The agenda Soundwave had laid out looked harmless -- bath, drying, recharge, polishing, nap, possible repeat plus playtime -- but Swindle kept getting heebie-jeebies while pondering what exactly could go wrong this time around. 

He was no stranger to calculated risk. He made himself a defenseless target every time he entered a session, but this time the anxiety kept climbing. There was a vast difference between playing pet for Thundercracker and doing the same for Soundwave. Soundwave could not only make sure that his body was never found, but also that nobody even thought to look for him.

His jitters built right until the door to Soundwave’s quarters opened. Swindle looked at Soundwave, who looked the same as always if not even more stoic than normal. Then he looked past Soundwave and saw the tub.

For the first time in two hours, he relaxed. 

If big bad Decepticons could have kiddie pools, this thing was the right size for it. No public washracks for a precious pet, apparently. Soundwave’s preparations must have included getting the bath ready, and it did look ready. Hilariously, over-the-top ready. Foam stood a meter and a half over the edge of the giant, knee-high inflatable pool. The thing looked like it was made of tire rubber, and it took up half the room.

He hadn’t seen a proper oil bath since Darkmount drained its officers’ washracks when rationing went into effect. This was no pool of hot oil, but the sheer amount of effort that must have gone into making a tub on this dustball planet convinced Swindle this session was benign. He finally believed Soundwave’s interest to be the real deal. Where the frag had Soundwave found it, how had he filled it, and by Swindle’s bouncy Jeep suspension system, how was the slagger going to empty it?

He shook the thoughts from his head as the Comm. Officer stood aside to let him in. The silent invitation had hints of wariness about it, as if Soundwave thought he was about to bolt, but Swindle walked inside without hesitation. He brought up the session request list as he did so. Swindle had a list of various primitive creatures from the galaxy he’d compiled for his clients to peruse, and Soundwave had requested a combination of general felinoid, cyberhound, and rather odd choice: tubeferret. Not that they weren’t all tamer, less violent creatures prone to bolting instead of biting, but the odd part was that Soundwave had highlighted the Earth equivalents. 

Cybertron had exterminated most of its wildlife. Animals were plentiful on Earth, leading to a lot of cohabitation. Humans relished sharing their lives with creatures of lower intelligences. Pets never caught on back on Cybertron partly because of the scarcity of wildlife, partly because pets were seen as a status symbol. Domestication hadn’t been popular except among the very rich, who could afford rare creatures and were used to bestowing affection upon sentient belongings: social inferiors. Maybe that’s why Swindle’s little off-duty gimmick had such a following. The idea of dumb, unconditional adoration in return for simple, basic care appealed to even Decepticons. Or maybe especially to Decepticons. 

Swindle didn’t think Soundwave would go through this much effort to mess with him. Meaning that this really was nothing more than a session from a mech who wanted what the merchant had to offer.

His priority list reshuffled as he calmed. Tilting his head, the shorter mech blinked up at the Comm. Officer. Specific behavioral pattern subroutines popped up on his HUD, ready to be selected, and Swindle slid into the right mindset despite how tired and filthy he felt at the moment. 

The door closed behind him. The taller Decepticon didn’t relax, but his shoulders did go down slightly. “Come here, Swindle,” that notorious monotone voice ordered dispassionately. Hands carefully reached for him, still tentative. Soundwave obviously expected him to shove the money back in the original account and run for it.

The conmech activated the filter over his vocalizer and selected the felinoid behaviorism subroutine. _”What do you want me to do?”_ came out as an inquisitive, “Mrrr?”

The boxy blue mech just -- stopped. A few seconds of staring passed, and the dull red light of his visor lit brightly. Swindle made sure not to grin. He knew that look. Hesitating hands suddenly gained confidence, and Swindle repeated his questioning, “Mrrr?” when they tugged him up against the larger mech.

Soundwave picked him up. It was somewhat awkward since the Jeep was 2/3rds the other mech’s size, but Astrotrain liked to carry him around, too. He knew how to make it easier. Easier, that was, in the way of technimals everywhere. Once his weight left the ground, he went limp and purred his engine smugly as he spilled right back out of Soundwave’s startled hold. 

The small grounder promptly poured to the ground in the strutless manner of felinoids galaxy-wide. “Mrrr?” Pretty purple optics looked up at the speechless mech from the floor where Swindle sat, hands on the floor and aft planted between his ankle tires. _”Why did you drop me?”_

Pretending to lose interest, he ducked down to rub his helm against one arm. “Owwwr!” he complained as Soundwave took the presented opportunity to wrap his arms around his middle and try picking him up again. “Rowr owr rowwwr,” Swindle complained, going limp and letting himself be gathered up. _”Noooo, can’t you see I was busy? I have a full schedule today!”_

Only when Soundwave had him in his arms did Swindle start squirming. A few disgruntled noises and some kicking later, he was cradled instead of dangled. His legs bent, knees tucking up to his grill to make himself smaller. “Prrrowr?” Elbows tucked close, Swindle curled his hands underneath his chin and widened his optics in an innocent gaze up at his temporary owner. _”Look at me being all cute. Is this what you want?”_

Held to Soundwave’s chest like this, he could hear fans stall, and Soundwave stopped dead in mid-stride. The most helpless look Swindle had ever seen crossed the officer’s face, mask or not. And it definitely wasn’t his imagination that the arms around him tightened in an involuntary squeeze. Yup, dead on the money: this was what Soundwave wanted.

“…good,” Soundwave said in a strangled voice. “Good pet.”

He was such a good pet, yes he was. Swindle snuggled against the mech’s tapedeck and let his engine start a rough purr. Soundwave made a non-sound -- there was no other way to describe it other than a soundless burst of “..!” -- and carried him toward the tub. Through a slitted optic, Swindle kept track of how close they were as he kneaded his hands against Soundwave’s chest. 

The Comm. Officer knelt, trying not to jostle him, and Swindle exploded into motion.

“ **Reeaaaaaaooowr!** ” Every vent fuffed. Fans hissed. The small grounder twisted around Soundwave’s surprised hold and clawed away from the _wet stuff_. “Rowrawwr _**hsssssst!**_ ” Bad, horrible, weird-smelling wet stuff! Felinoids hated that!

Shocked to immobility by the sudden struggling, Soundwave froze. Swindle took the opportunity to successfully climb up over his arm and onto the larger Decepticon’s shoulders, where he perched and commenced throwing a tantrum while the mech tried to turn his head enough to see him clearly. _“No! No no no!”_ translated through the Jeep’s vocalizer came out in a series of highly offended hisses and spitted yowls. It was tremendous fun to chew out a superior officer like this.

Soundwave sat still through Swindle giving him a piece of his mind like a housecat in a snit. Eventually, a hand ventured up. Swindle’s engine howled a warning as he twisted to evade, but the hand persisted in seeking out his helm. It stroked, fingers rubbing in _just_ the right way under the helm edge. Purple optics dimmed appreciatively, and the fingers tickled under his chin. A half-stuttered purr broke the steady growl in his throat.

The hand retreated and held out in offering. Still fuffing out every vent, Swindle butted his helm into it. “Rrrr.” It scratched. His engine purred. _”You’re not forgiven, bringer of the wet stuff. But I will deign to let you pet me.”_

Soundwave kept it up long enough to ease both hands up, and then --

“ **ROWR!** ” Laughter tried to escape Swindle’s vocalizer because this was too silly, but pet mech was most unamused by this turn of events. Pet mech splooshed into the bath in an ungraceful bellyflop, sending foam flying. On the inside, Swindle chuckled to himself as he analyzed the bath’s contents. Water? Probably the most convenient choice considering how much solvent would have been needed to fill this pool, but it wasn’t the most efficient. They did have the time, however, and Soundwave apparently wanted to take his time cleaning him. 

Not that Swindle had to make it easy for him. “Reowr!” Now wet, slippery, and twice as hard to keep ahold of, he squirmed loose and surged toward the far side of the pool in a desperate bid for freedom. _”Free!”_

“No!” Hands grabbed the back of his neck and a shoulder tire, and Swindle made his displeasure known in a particularly loud yowl. “No. Swindle: desist struggling. Cleaning necessary,” Soundwave said patiently over the racket. “Promise: will be nice. Calm down.”

“Yrrraawwwrrrrr!” the frantic Jeep almost screamed. He batted at the hands holding him in the water. _”I will die! The wet stuff will kill me! You’re trying to kill me!”_

“Temperature: pleasant,” Soundwave coaxed, pushing him down against the stiff hydraulics of a panicking, unhappy pet mech. “Swindle: filthy. Will enjoy being clean. Soundwave: will take care of good pet.” One hand tried to pet the smaller Decepticon, who almost writhed free in that moment of distraction. Soundwave renewed his grip. “Be good!”

That had been near an emotional outburst. Swindle subsided into the foam.

As soon as he stopped trying to escape, Soundwave’s hands eased their hold. The Jeep eyed the far side of the tub, but they tightened in warning. Whining miserably -- he would drown, couldn’t his owner see that the nasty wet stuff would kill him? -- Swindle slumped. Soundwave cautiously released him. When he didn’t try to escape again, the big blue mech began setting out various bathing supplies. The pet mech sank down further in the foam and glowered from underneath their white, bubbly protection. His owner was in collusion with the wet stuff to kill him. He could tell.

“Grrrr,” he warned the bottles of leather conditioner and non-bubblebath solvent mixtures Soundwave set on the tub edge. Was that a sponge? That was a sponge. It was as big as his _head_.

He’d admit it: he was in a much better mood, now. Swindle had the feeling things would only get better from here.

A moment later, he was happily splishing about in the bubbles as he switched subroutines from panicking felinoid to cyberhound in a greasepit. Bubbles! And water! This was the best! The small grounder dunked under the water chasing something only he could see, came up for air crowned in foam, and planted all four limbs in order to vigorously shake the excess water out from under his plating. It sprayed everything in the room, including the desk console.

A sneaky glance revealed that Soundwave didn’t care about the soaking. Swindle caught the stoic Comm. Officer kneeling there watching him through a wide visor lightened to a color more pink than red. Oh, yeah. This was exactly what Soundwave wanted from him.

He dove toward his owner, splashing bellydown in the water and creating a swamping wave of water that sloshed over the tub edge as Swindle whined for petting. That fact that Soundwave didn’t even react to the giant sploosh of water to the chest said more than the low croon of nonsense the officer gave as he obliged him. Aggressively pushing into the larger mech’s chest, Swindle arched into the stroking hands and shared as much muddy water as he could. Sharing was caring, right? 

He also stole the sponge, but Soundwave didn’t notice that until Swindle sloshed out of reach across the pool with it between his teeth. 

The double-take the not-so-emotionless communication specialist gave made everything worth it. A finger pointed sternly. “Swindle: return.”

Swindle shook his head energetically and ran his engine in a loud, “Rrrrr.” Mischievous purple optics looked up at his master over the sponge, and he tossed the sponge into the air to chase. _”Play with me!”_

“Rrrr!” he said again when Soundwave just knelt there staring at him. Crouching in the water, Swindle growled and shook the sponge some more before chomping on it. Kill the sponge! Kill it! _”Play!”_

“Swindle,” the monotone was shaky and soft, “return.” Soundwave’s fingers curled slowly when the Jeep flopped over in the water and kept revving his engine at him. “Swindle. Bad pet. Desist.”

Laughing inside, the conmech piled another layer of cute on and splayed his arms in front of himself, aft up and wagging slightly in the universal sign for an eager, happy creature who wanted someone to join the fun. He whined around the sponge. _”Play with me?”_

He could actually see Soundwave swallow, and the officer’s fists lifted off the tub edge as self-control fought a losing battle against a mech who really wanted to play with the adorable pet mech. Pet mech shook his sponge again, growling to cover a snicker. He wasn’t surrendering his makeshift toy. Soundwave would just have to come get it. There would be rolling about and tug-of-war. The officer would love it. And that’s what Soundwave was afraid of.

Swindle had lost count of how many of his first-time clients he’d had to bait into having a good time. It’s what they bought him for, but Decepticons didn’t give up their dignity easily.

_*squeak!*_

What in the name of Primus..?

Shaking a little, poise abandoned, Soundwave held his hand up enticingly. “Swindle: return. Be good.” 

_*squeak!*_ said the brightly-colored rubber toy. _*squeak-squeak!*_

He was going to laugh himself sick later over this. “Rowrf!” An armful of wriggling, licking, excited, playful Swindle threw himself at Soundwave, sponge forgotten.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	12. Pt. 12

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Twelve**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

He felt incredibly silly, but he did have a reputation to maintain. Soundwave had spent more money on him than most third-world tyrants would on those shiny weapons he sold them. In return, he owed the mech his best. Pet sessions probably qualified as the most honest deals he made, these days, so he’d actually give his best.

His best involved recharging in Soundwave’s berth, curled up against him. That had been awkward at first, but exhaustion knocked him out for the first three hours. Sleeping on his arm pinched the sensor network, waking him by the fourth hour. Uncomfortable, Swindle consulted his behaviorism subroutines and decided to be a restless pet.

Soundwave had fallen into recharge on his side, one arm over the curled ball of Jeep that’d purred to sleep against his chest. The moment that ball unfurled into a long stretch, the situation changed. Not obviously, but it did. Swindle pretended that he didn’t noticed Soundwave snap online into alert wakefulness. If Soundwave wanted to pretend he was still recharging, then a mere pet mech wouldn’t notice the difference. 

The conmech inched down Soundwave’s body and flopped over the bigger Decepticon’s legs for a half an hour. Nominally awake, he oozed completely over onto the other side and curled up in the space between the wall and the back of Soundwave’s knees. An hour later, and he sprawled between the mech’s feet. Fifteen minutes on, and he’d ended up snuggled against the top of the Comm. Officer’s head. That was actually the most comfortable, and he managed a few hours recharge just shifting a few times and laying partially over the mech’s mask and chest when Soundwave finally surrendered and turned onto his back.

A hand stroked his helm and down his back a few times, but Swindle whined complaints and squirmed out of reach after tolerating a couple minutes of that. 

Soundwave stopped petting him and gently pushed him off his face instead. Swindle snoozed for an hour and somehow wrapped around his head like a Jeep brand hat. The officer, in a show of patience, just dislodged him a second time.

When Swindle woke up two hours later, he knew Soundwave was awake, too. Since he was all but laying on the mech, it would have been hard to miss. But Soundwave kept pretending to recharge, so that left the next phase of the session up to Swindle. He was tempted to go back into recharge.

Reputation called. 

There was only one thing to do. Play along. 

Swindle yawned, opening his mouth as wide as he could in perfect imitation of a sleepy Earth animal as he pushed his arms out onto the berth on the far side of his owner. “Nhyooow…” Cables popped, and he arched and twisted to loosen stress-tightened hydraulics throughout his neck, back, and legs, one at a time. The dim red visor at the corner of his vision watched the whole act. He rumbled his engine in pleasure at the burning stretch and clambered over Soundwave’s ‘sleeping’ form to drop to the floor.

Where was that toy? Ha!

_*sqa-veeeeeek*_

It sounded considerably sadder after being drowned in the bath last night. Swindle had taken sadistic delight in forcing Soundwave to fish it out for rescue and resuscitation several times. Now, the merchant shook it vigorously while it bleated. “Rrrrr!”

_*veee-eek-eek-eek*_

Out of the corner of his optic, he spotted slow movement as the blue mech on the berth shifted to watch. It looked like Soundwave was still pretending to sleep, but Swindle was definitely being watched. Well then, if a paying customer wanted a show, then a show he would give.

Growling contentedly, the conmech gnawed on the rubber toy for a while. Pained squeaks filled the room as the toy protested this treatment. It really hadn’t been made for this kind of abuse. Where had Soundwave even gotten the thing? Under the guise of nudging it across the floor and pouncing on it, he tried to find a manufacturer’s label. It looked like it’d been a hunting decoy in a former life, but who made rubber squeak toy decoys? 

A little frustrated that he couldn’t figure out who’d made it, he rolled about on the floor kicking at the dumb thing. It was a ridiculous sight, he was sure. Small Autobot-sized grounder or not, Swindle was a Decepticon. A Decepticon fighting a rubber ducky to the tune of wheezy _*squeaaaaak*_ had absolutely no claim to dignity.

Soundwave was enraptured. When next the Jeep looked at the berth, the Comm. Officer was sitting on the edge watching him with hands clasped tightly on either side of his legs. That was the look of a mech who wanted badly to touch but was restraining himself. That wouldn’t do at all. Pet mech wasn’t going to be the only undignified one playing, here.

Swindle trotted over and dropped the toy in his lap. “Prrrrr? Rowrf!”

Soundwave stroked his helm before picking up the toy and tossing it across the room.

Still on all fours, the conmech galloped after it with all the joyful abandon of a tubeferret chasing a dot of light. He slid to a stop by rebounding off the far wall, rolled over as he scrambled for the toy, and came to a halt on his side, looking at Soundwave upside-down. He chewed on the toy, getting a sad wail from the dying squeaker inside. 

“Swindle: return.” So much for the monotone. Soundwave could barely manage a level voice.

The friendly bark got muffled by a mouthful of toy, but Swindle flailed over onto his knees and bounded back across the room. Soundwave reached for the toy, and the bark turned into a laughing growl when the pet mech refused to let it go.

“Swindle: release.”

“Rrrrr!” He pulled against the hand tugging on the toy. Soundwave’s other hand patted him on the head, coaxing, but Swindle set hands and knees against the floor to give a good pull. 

“Swindle.”

“Rrrr?” Big purple optics looked up at his owner. _”Play with me?”_ Primus, he felt like an idiot.

“Swindle. Release. Good pet?” Soundwave slid down to sit on the floor in front of him, both hands seizing the toy to pull his head back and forth. “Release.”

Swindle tugged back. One hand let go of the toy to take advantage of his concentration to -- beep his nose.

Surprised, he let go. Soundwave held the toy up out of reach in preparation for throwing it again.

When Swindle scampered after it, the soft glow of Soundwave’s visor told him the mech was getting his money’s worth.

**[* * * * *]**


	13. Pt. 13

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Thirteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

It wasn’t everyday that Swindle was given a budget for completely frivolous purchases. The urge to keep it was strong, but he was supposed to spend it. That was novel enough that he didn’t even mind that he was essentially wasting money. Eh, who cared? It wasn’t his in the first place.

He was having a hard time deciding what to spend it on. Since being indecisive made a bigger scene, however, he wasn’t complaining.

“I want one.” Leaning heavily against Onslaught’s hand, the merchant Combaticon made grabby hands at the nearest display case. “I want three. Can I have three?”

The gestalt bond rang with his commander’s revulsion for the act, but on the outside, Onslaught only looked away from his own conversation with the Callian merchant to give the case a cursory glance. The pendants inside glittered. “No,” he said. Onslaught was above frivolous purchases. Swindle could pick something else.

Or wheedle, which drew attention and was the point of the act. “But I want it!” Swindle whined, deliberately pitching his voice high as he leaned a bit more against the hand clamped on his altmode’s roof support brace. “I can get a good price!” Pretty purple optics flashed canny as they sized up the alien on the other side of the counter. “I know I can.”

That pricked the Callian’s professional pride. “Your pet’s quite confident in his bargaining abilities,” the merchant said, finally deigning to acknowledge the smaller Cybertronian.

“They’re why he’s mine,” Onslaught sneered. The subtext wasn’t very subtle: _’And not yours.’_ The Combaticon leader might hate his particular role in Shockwave’s plan, but Swindle and Acid Storm had spent the entire shuttle ride to Calliae coaching the basics of pet ownership into him. They hadn’t made a dent on his stubborn perspective on what exactly an ‘owner’ was, but he got the basics of how Callian owners acted in public. He still didn’t _get_ pets in general, but he could at least play the part. 

A critical visor swept the merchant up and down, and the alien stiffened under the assessing look. “I don’t accept less than the best in my entourage.” Onslaught snorted through his vents and turned his head a bit, openly dismissing an obvious inferior, and the Callian fumed.

But in the warrior society on Calliae, only the weak took less violent careers. Onslaught, with his highly visible armament and hugely powerful gestalt around him, was a towering social superior to this measly merchant. Acid Storm had requested the Combaticons’ presence in his bi-vornly energon purchasing trip for precisely that reason. By himself, the Seeker had the charm and firepower to get the elite of Calliae to grant him a decent price. Combine four Decepticon powerhouses and one of the cleverest conmechs in the game, however, and they were going to walk off with more energon than Shockwave had managed to buy for Cybertron since Megatron left. Acid Storm was strolling on ahead through the market with all the confidence in the world right now. 

Before Onslaught’s confidently arrogant stare, the alien lowered his gaze with great humility. Swindle whined again and made grabby hands more insistently, but his lips turned up in a smug smirk as he did so. His owner had said he was the best and there wasn’t anything the Callian could do about it, ha ha!

Maybe not, but the merchant’s _owner_ could. “I’d be interested in seeing these touted skills,” bellowed through the stalls, and a wall of flesh lumbered down the street. The offer was made sharply, but not angrily. The warrior caste on Calliae just seemed incapable of speaking in anything but a shout. 

Out of sight, Acid Storm pinged Swindle for an update. The conmech confirmed the mark’s identity as one of the market’s more prominent stall owners and requested permission to engage. Acid Storm sent a viciously pleased affirmative back. The energy market lay further up ahead. Time to get the gossip started and establish a real reputation on-planet.

A quick ping to the rest of Swindle’s team updating them on the situation, and the game was on.

Onslaught turned to meet the warrior, Blast Off, Vortex, and Brawl falling into guard positions at his back. “I fail to see why I should give a demonstration. He doesn’t need another bauble.” Swindle leaned, digging his heels in as he gazed at the shinies longingly. “You don’t,” he was told, but he only subsided when Onslaught added a little shake by the scruff of his neck. 

The Jeep sulked at the reprimand. He still eyed the pendants greedily. His rival merchant gave him a smile full of teeth that came down just barely on the side of friendly instead of hostile. See whose master was the better one now? The rank of the masters ranked the pets, and if the foreign mech’s owner submitted, then the superior pet was that of the better owner.

The Callian came to a halt in front of Onslaught and gave Swindle a look-over. “Baubles?” he bellowed at the mechs. One massive meat-hand gestured at the Decepticon emblem-shaped air freshener dangling from Swindle’s rear view mirror. “How poor a bargainer he must be if that is all he shows! Does he have no collar? No decorations?” 

One finger poked at the smallest Combaticon, who frowned defiantly up at him. Kitten against a lion kind of defiance, but still -- defiance. A sense of repression came through the gestalt link that he didn’t dignify with a response. Please, Onslaught. Don’t tell _Swindle_ how to conform to local customs when it came to markets. On Calliae, merchants were chattel owned by the toughest warriors. He knew that. He knew how to play the pet better than Onslaught knew his own role. That’s why the Combaticon leader was down to following cues instead of leading this little soirée. 

It did so grind Onslaught’s pride that despite appearing in charge, he was more of a prop for Swindle’s dealings. The Jeep had Acid Storm’s brilliant idea and Shockwave’s authority to thank for that. They’d hatched the scheme. Swindle had agreed to it. The other Combaticons just had to play their roles and not screw it up while Swindle and Acid Storm did business.

“He cannot be wealthy, to be so unadorned!” the warrior was saying, still poking the little mech. A mocking look went to Onslaught himself, or rather, to the hand still clamped on Swindle’s support brace. “The best? Ha! You lead him by hand. He is either ill-trained or incompetent!”

“He is a merchant of weaponry,” Onslaught said coldly. “We display his wealth of wares ourselves, as befitting those who fight.” All of the Combaticons gave a simultaneous twitch of their inbuilt weapons, and the warrior’s eyes caught on them. And lingered. Shockwave had decked them out with the latest and best weapons-tech the Decepticons could produce before sending them on this mission. Translated into merchant terms, Swindle was wealthy indeed.

Onslaught gave that fact a moment to sink in and begin to generate envy in the Callian before he shrugged carelessly. “He is unadorned because he is my pet, not my bodyguard.” Blast Off, Vortex, and Brawl twitched their weaponry again, pointedly this time. “He can fight, but it pleases me that my pet be vulnerable. As for the leash…” 

“I set it on fire,” Vortex spoke up, laughing in a way that wasn’t quite sane.

Glaring at the helicopter, Swindle muttered, “I want a new one. A fire-proof one.”

Now eyeing the Cybertronians with more greed than affront, the warrior glanced at his own pet. The merchant was giving Swindle a slightly more respectful look -- arms merchants were the highest class of low-caste weaklings on Calliae -- but snapped to attention when his owner reached out to finger the collar around his neck. “Ownership should be shown,” the alien said at a thoughtful volume. Only half the street heard. “What self-respect can a pet have if his owner’s pride is not shown on his body? Harrrur.” Still thoughtful, he gave the smallest Combaticon a second look of his own. “Perhaps a contest?”

Onslaught gave the warrior a skeptical look and shifted his hand to rest in a proprietary way on Swindle’s head. The merchant stood straight under it, suddenly all manner of attentive toy mech called to duty by his owner. “My pet’s wares are worth far more than a collar.”

“Of course.” It was a matter of pride, now. Merchants and customers alike were watching, and the warrior couldn’t offer less than Onslaught did before the watching crowd. “A pet’s skills should be matched by his ornaments. If my pet’s abilities fail me, then he should suffer the loss to remind him of his shame.” The merchant looked at his master in dawning horror. Swindle grinned, suddenly eyeing the Callian’s accessories with an optic to acquire. “In return…”

Blast Off wordlessly slung a rifle half the size of one of his thrusters off his shoulder and held it out.

“That would be an acceptable forfeit.” The warrior smiled, but Swindle stepped back against Onslaught and folded his arms as if he were protecting his commander and master. “Ah?”

The Jeep looked up for permission to speak in the affairs of owners. When Onslaught nodded down at him, he turned those deceptively angelic purple optics on the alien. “It’s a rigged deal. That’s my **product**. You’re offering used, piecemeal petware in return for my best stock.” 

The righteous declaration got a raised eyebrow. The warrior hesitated, but Onslaught gave the merchant behind the counter another assessing look. The pet accessories he wore were lovely things, but some of them were old or dinged from everyday use. “He’s right.” Swindle’s engine purred as his owner gave him an approving pat.

Reluctant but well aware of the gathering crowd, the warrior nodded to his own pet. Even more reluctant, the merchant unlocked the display case and took out one of the gorgeous, expensive pendants Swindle had been ogling earlier.

“How’s it going?” Acid Storm asked over the closed commlink frequency.

Swindle smiled radiantly at his rival, who had already been outmaneuvered into his first concession and was only just realizing it. The alien looked between his owner and the conmech, helpless rage filling his eyes. The bargaining had already been won. It was only clean-up from here. “It’s going wonderfully. Gossip about us will hit the energy market before we even step foot in it.”

So it did, and Swindle’s foot had jewels dripping down it as he led the way. He pulled against a secondhand leash attached to a secondhand collar, but the collar featuring a brand new pendant in place of an ownership tag.

He’d been nice enough to leave that to his defeated foe, at least.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	14. Pt. 14

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Fourteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

At first, he really didn't get it. Like the pet bed in the common room, it had his name on it, but he couldn't make sense of what it was. It was a...ball. A ball with weird divots in varying sizes and shapes all over it. They looked like holes, and he couldn't quite make out what he was seeing inside.

It hung on his door off the package hook, which didn't help any. Swindle approached the thing cautiously, because not expecting a package and getting a package anyway inspired only dread. He had enough enemies that it could be a bomb. It probably was a bomb. It didn't look like a bomb, but he didn't know what it looked like, either.

His scanners gave him strange readings. He scanned it again. 

"What's that?" Brawl asked from behind him.

"I don't know," he said and casually put the tank between him and his door. "Why don't you go find out?"

Brawl wasn't highly intelligent, but he was no fool. "Uh-huh, no," he decided. Taking a step to the side, he glanced back at the Jeep trying to hide behind him. "Who'd you honk off?"

"Besides Onslaught? Vortex, Blast Off, Bombshell, a couple third-world dictators, and a smattering of Autobots." Swindle peered at the ball, daring to venture a few steps closer when it continued to look harmless. Suspiciously harmless. "I don't recall Jazz being on the list, and I know for a fact that Wheeljack won't blow me up if he wants that iridium shipment to go through."

Brawl walked after him, not nearly as cautious and twice as curious. "Onslaught and Blast Off wouldn't hurt you." He stopped and thought that over before amending, "Much more than before. Humans don't got access to the base. Insecticons are alright if you give 'em something to eat?" he hazarded. The tank didn't know much about pacifying angry mechs, as he was usually one of the angry mechs in question. “Bombshell’s a business buddy, right? He won’t stay mad if you give him food.”

Swindle nodded absently. "I made him a drywall and newspaper sandwich with a side of lumber. I'm still waiting to hear back from him, but I doubt he's mad enough to try giving me a...whatever this is." Shielding his face with one hand, he gingerly poked the ball with the other.

It jingled. In a very familiar way to a set of audios experienced in picking that sound up no matter where he was at the time.

"I think it's full of money," he said in disbelief, straightening up to stare. Now that he thought to look for it, the glints of metal he saw inside did sort of look like currency. That there was Cybertronian shanix, and the blue might have been Boriate conners. The red crystals were probably Gennt iciclnes. “What the frag? What’s a ball full of money doing on my door?”

Brawl looked from merchant to ball of cash and shook his head. "If I had to bait a trap for you, that'd be how I'd do it."

"I wish more traps laid for me were full of money." This thing was coming home with him. Since home was right here, how convenient was that? "Give me a good lawyer, and I'd walk into them." As long as he got to keep the money, he’d gladly deal with the bother of getting caught. He couldn’t count the amount of money he’d ended up with because someone else wasn’t willing to jump through legal hoops to fight over it.

Swindle snatched the ball off the door and turned it over in his hands. It jingled as the bits of currency inside caught and fell from the odd holes perforating the ball. Swindle kept turning it over in his hands, oddly fascinated by the jingling. He couldn't quite figure out how it opened. Surely it had to open. How else was he supposed to get the money out? 

"That's kinda neat," Brawl said, and his smaller teammate squawked indignantly as a blocky hand swiped it out of his hold. Holding it up to the light, he shook it to watch the money fall about inside. “How’s it work?”

“What do you mean, how’s it work? It’s a ball. A ball full of money.” He had no idea. “You open it up and spend it.” That seemed reasonable.

“Naw, that doesn’t make sense. Why would somebody give you a ball of money with your name on it?” Brawl kept holding it out of Swindle’s reach as he squinted at the thing. “I don’t see a latch.” He weighed it in his hand as he thought it over. The money inside clinked. “Y’know, I think it’s a toy?”

Swindle jostled the larger Combaticon’s elbow and nabbed the ball with a grunt of victory. Only once it was safely in his greedy hands again did he think about what Brawl had said. “I suppose it could be…” He turned it over in his hands, shaking it to hear the sound. Also to try and get a coin out. Seriously, how did this thing open? “I don’t get the point of it, if that’s the case. Why not just hand me the money and hire me outright?”

Brawl poked him in the shoulder tire. “You get anonymous gifts sometimes, right? Maybe he’s shy.”

First the pet bed, then the pile of blankets, now a ball full of money? “Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me. I assume a gift without a pricetag attached is free. This,” he jingled the ball, “doesn’t even have a request attached. If there are no instructions on how to use it, why would I do anything but crack it open?” He gave the anonymous gifts one public ‘play’ as a general show of appreciation for the custom things. His other clients liked them even if the anonymous benefactor never stepped forward. 

This, he just didn’t get. If he didn’t get it, using it was out of the question.

“Naaaah. I can kind of see it.” Brawl swiped at the ball, and Swindle ducked.

“What’s your problem?!” Fragging teammate and his itching need for the gestalt link. They’d been heading to his quarters for some casual physical contact when they’d come across the ball, and now Brawl was _interested_. Swindle didn’t like mechs to get interested in his business. That went places that cut into his profits.

Brawl’s visor narrowed in amusement, and the smaller Decepticon found himself backing away nervously as big hands grasped at the ball in his arms. “I’m gonna get it…”

“Stop that.”

“I’m gonna **get** it, Swindle…” He stopped and snorted a laugh. “See?”

Swindle looked down and frowned, finding that he’d somehow ended up cradling the ball in his arms. “Oh, ha ha.”

“It’s kind of cute!”

That really wasn’t what he expected to hear from Brawl, of all mechs. “Uh, okay.”

“I’m gonna get it.”

Swindle scowled. “Look, I don’t think it’s a toy like that.” Brawl’s hands crept in playful menace toward the ball, and the Jeep hunched over it. “No.” More creeping fingers advancing toward him, onto his forearms, and Brawl’s visor gleamed with laughter. “No.” They started to pry at his grip, and Swindle couldn’t stop his lips from twitching. It was extremely silly, but in a way that was so ridiculous it became funny.

Brawl picked his fingers loose one by one and scooped the ball up to jingle over Swindle’s head. “I got the ball! I got it!”

“You’re an idiot,” Swindle muttered while trying not to grin.

Brawl held the ball out to the side. The Jeep’s optics followed it. To the other side, and the merchant’s head turned. Up. Down. Behind the tank’s back. Which hand had it?

“This is so stupid.” But despite that, Swindle leaned to the side as he tried to peer around the tank where the ball had gone. “I’m not going to chase a ball.”

“Oh yeah?” Brawl produced the ball and gently tossed it down the hall. Swindle jerked a step after it before catching himself, but Brawl laughed at him anyway. The ball bounced away, jingling.

A coin dropped out.

“Ha!” Swindle might have teleported for as fast as he pounced on it. “Three shanix! Nice.”

When he looked up from gloating over his prize, he sighed at Brawl’s smugness. “I’m not chasing a ball!”

“Told you it was a toy.”

“Whatever.”

“Heh heh.” The other Combaticon took a step after the ball. “I’m gonna get it.”

“Stop that.”

“I’m gonna **get** it…”

Jeep and tank faced off, tense and both trying not to laugh out loud. Brawl lunged.

Swindle scampered after the slagging ball.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	15. Pt. 15

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Fifteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

When Spectro laid out the newest contract, Swindle gave him a look for the third-party clause. “Another participant?” That was new. He wasn’t sure he liked this new thing, either.

Something that must have shown, because Spectro hurried to assure him, “Observer. Hands-off completely. No filming, but I have been contracted to contract you in a live show.” When the Jeep reread the contract skeptically, the Reflector component highlighted the increased price.

“Yes, I see it,” Swindle grumbled. It was tiresome sometimes, being defined by his greed. Accurate more often than not, but tiresome. “Who’s the...audience?” What a weird life he lived, that mechs wanted to watch him play toy mech.

“Irrelevant.” That got a sardonic look. The identity of anyone involved in his sessions was _always_ relevant, but the shorter Decepticon shook his head at Swindle. “The client has only cleared me to tell you that it would be beneficial for future,” he hesitated, seeming to pick his words carefully, “relations, if you agreed. Your cooperation in keeping his identity concealed is spelled out for you in the contract as well.”

He’d already seen the nondisclosure clause in the contract. “I don’t like going into sessions blind.”

“It’s a standard session, except with me alone,” Spectro insisted. “I have several items I want to put on you. The client only wants to watch. You do not have to react at all to his presence. His preference is that we act as if he isn’t there.”

A voyeur, huh? A suspiciously benign one. Swindle’s radio antenna quivered with how wary he was. Playing dress-up with the Reflector components wasn’t new, but having it turn into a show was. 

“Where would this session be held?” he asked, trying to calculate the risk versus that nice price tag. And who could he possibly want to improve relations with? He always wanted to improve relations with everyone. That’s what networking was. Who thought their relationship needed improving?

“Cybertron.”

...that did narrow the list considerably. In fact, the only one with authorization to open the space bridge to get them from Earth to Cybertron -- oh. “How would we be getting there?” he asked as neutral as possible. He already knew the answer, but just in case, he had to ask.

Spectro inclined his head in acknowledgement. None of Reflector’s parts underestimated Swindle’s intelligence. “Space bridge. It will be arranged that we act as guards for the next shipment of energon sent through.”

“I’m sure it will be.” The only one with that kind of pull with Megatron was the one mech Swindle really would bend over backward to improve relations with. 

He’d submitted the evidence to clear his name of Onslaught’s rebellion, but he’d never heard back about whether it had been taken into consideration or not. If Shockwave promised this little favor would improve things between them, Swindle would grab the contract with both hands and a trailer hitch. It was shady as the Pit and likely to end badly, but the opportunity was there. He _had_ to jump on it.

Swindle tightened his bolts and signed the contract. 

It was a good thing his long-standing agreement with the Reflector components included no talking. No vocalizer at all meant that he automatically offlined it. Engine noises were allowed; speaking was not. His vocalizer was already offline when Spectro led him away from the pallet full of energon in the space bridge and deeper into the creepy purple maze of hallways inside Shockwave’s weird hermit retreat.

It was supposed to be the main tower of the Decepticon base here, but Swindle had heard from Acid Storm -- who had been here all four million years, after all -- that Shockwave never left the tower itself. The interior of it was a confusing puzzlebox only Shockwave could navigate reliably.

That made Swindle feel that much more nervous. He’d never liked the logical scientist and trusted right-hand mech of Megatron. He’d liked him even less after getting thrown into the Detention Centre by him for a crime he’d only peripherally been involved in. For all he knew, Shockwave disliked him just as much, and Spectro was leading him to a laboratory for one of those unpleasantly invasive experiments Hook kept hinting at whenever any of the Combaticons were in the repairbay.

By the time Spectro found the right room, they’d backtracked twice and taken so many turns his navigation equipment glitched. Swindle had no idea how to get out of the room they’d just entered. Fortunately, having his vocalizer offline meant that the only sign of his distress was the high thrum of an engine running hot. His optics were wide, but he often kept them wider than usual when playing pet. Mechs liked the look. 

He hoped it covered how unnerved he was. Because yes indeed, there was Shockwave working at a lab table on the far side of the room.

The creep.

At first, it was difficult to ignore him. Shockwave loomed over Onslaught and Blast Off, so Swindle felt even tinier next to him. It got worse when Spectro pushed him down to his knees to start the session. Even across the room, it was hard to forget that the giant mech was there. Swindle’s internal creep-o-meter was on high alert.

Although when he snuck a look, Shockwave wasn’t even watching. He seemed to be reading something on the computer, occasionally typing a command or correction as he went. That was surprisingly reassuring. It didn’t make Swindle relax any, but it did remind him of how Soundwave liked to watch him without appearing to watch him. Voyeurs didn’t always have to be participants.

He couldn’t figure out what Shockwave got from watching, but then again, he didn’t know what Spectro got from dressing him up in strange little outfits, either. Swindle filed it under the _‘Not My Fetish / Kink’_ category and reminded himself that he was being paid. That _was_ his fetish and kink.

At least the work was interesting.

Spectro started out with a pair of mittens. Large, constricting mittens in a dull violet that looked marvelous against Swindle’s paint job. They brought out his optics beautifully. When he’d gotten Swindle to his knees, the smaller Decepticon stroked his helm until the merchant focused. “Good,” he murmured once Swindle stopped sneaking looks at Shockwave and looked up at him instead. “Just a few things this time. You’ll be fine.”

It was a reassuring nonsense patter to sooth a nervous pet mech, and it worked. Swindle obediently let the other Decepticon take his hand up. The mitten didn’t look like much of anything, and he curiously curled his fingers into the flexible material when Spectro laid the back of his hand onto it. It was only when the lacing started tightening it around his fingers that he realized what it was supposed to be. He supposed he should have felt alarmed, but Spectro’s complete fixation on the lacing process was familiar and gratifying. His hand was bound into a useless fist by the mitten, but the attention felt good.

The smaller mech slowly wove the mitten closed, pulling the laces through his hands to hear the zipping sound, and tightening from wrist to palm in gentle tugs that gradually closed Swindle’s hand into a fist under the fabric. Spectro’s fingers lingered on the lacing, tracing down the crossed lines. His thumb pushed into the fabric to test how much range of motion the hand inside had, which wasn’t much. The mitten gathered the material tight over Swindle’s knuckles, the lacing drawn fully closed at the top. The lacing gaped a bit over the heel of his hand where it couldn’t be closed all the way because of the ball joint in the wrist. Spectro ran his forefinger up and down that open lacework, optics down and dim. He lightly pinched the point where the laces crossed, plucking at them as if they were strings on an instrument.

Swindle flexed his hand as much as he could inside the odd accessory and was somewhat impressed by how little motion it allowed him. This truly did serve to make him that much more dependent on his temporary owner. The sense of vulnerability that immediately swept over him left him uneasy but riding the half-pleasant edge that a high-stakes deal gave him. 

After quite a few minutes feeling the minute movements of Swindle’s fingers shifting inside the mitten, Spectro placed that hand on the floor and picked up the other one. The process repeated, if anything more slowly this time as Spectro took his time pulling the laces taut. The merchant let him do what he wanted, waiting with the patience of the paid. 

While Spectro savored the quiet sound of creaking rivets and laces moving through them, Swindle rolled the knuckles of his mittened hand against the floor. It really was interesting. With his hand balled up like this, he had to work out how to set his hands on the floor. It didn’t seem like a difficult decision, but the mittens made him that much more conscious of how he placed his hands, knowing that the things would catch the optic more than hands usually did. Would it look subservient or primitive to keep his wrist straight and rest his fist down on the flat between first and second knuckle? Did he look more animalistic bending his wrist to rest the heel and thumb of his hand on the floor instead?

When he finally finished lacing the second mitten, Spectro set Swindle’s hand on the floor with a pat to the back of it. Swindle cocked his head to the side and blinked those big purple optics. Now what?

Now came the bows. Swindle twitched a few times as he watched the Reflector component lay out rows upon rows of ribbons. Fat ones, thin ones, satin ones, velvet ones; silk, Kevlar, canvas, wool, and lace; thick tapestry strips that were heavily embroidered, and thread-thin shining wire made of rare metal; ribbons crocheted together into wider ribbons, and elaborate ribbons with gears and other decorations glued or imprinted onto them. Spectro ran them through his fingers for the soft shuffing noises, smiling slightly as he savored the different textures. He sized Swindle up as if wondering where to start.

Swindle took another quick glance as the silent observer in the room. Shockwave still sat at his desk, but his head had turned from his console to watch as Spectro began tying bows.

Big, silly bows with plump loops around Swindle’s neck, the loops reinforced with hidden slips of wire to hold them up against gravity. They stood up behind the conmech’s head, framing his helm in an adorable display of frills. Spectro tied, fussed, and rearranged until the shapes were perfect. The colors and sizes acted like an absurd floral display, except it was an explosion of ribbon bows. When he stepped back and eyed the finished product, Swindle tipped his chin down and gave a cheeky beep of his horn as if asking, _“Well? How do I look?”_

Good enough, because Spectro moved on. This time, he crafted little bitty bows. Tiny loops with long, trailing tails festooned the Jeep’s tires and the backs of his wrists. They fluttered gently when he moved. Swindle batted at them with his lumpy ‘paws’ and listened to the rustling. Ribbons and bows on a Decepticon. Was he supposed to be cute? He didn’t feel cute, but larger frametypes tended to regard size as an indicator of cuteness.

Shockwave kept watching. Swindle tilted his head to the side and gave the silent observer a flirty blink of his optics. Why not?

Spectro circled him, examining him critically. He drew the last handful of ribbons back and forth between his hands. He eventually settled for making a hugely frilly, crimped, braided, and twisted bow. He tied it in the middle of the ‘collar’ made from all the ribbons on the back of his neck. Now Swindle’s entire helm was framed in frills. He craned his neck but couldn’t manage to see the thing, since it was under his chin.

“Don’t.” Spectro caught his chin in one hand and eased it up. “You’ll crush it.”

He regarded the other Decepticon inquisitively. Now what?

“For show only,” was sighed regretfully. “No pictures this time.” A flicker of Spectro’s optics went toward their unacknowledged third member. No pictures, as dictated by Shockwave. It seemed that he wanted to watch the process, not keep evidence of the final product. That went against the grain for the Reflector component.

Swindle just smiled serenely amidst the ruffles. He didn’t care. He’d already been paid.

**[* * * * *]**


	16. Pt. 16

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Sixteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

It’s not often any of his clients preferred his altmode over his rootmode, but today was one of those days. 

It was an unusual session all around, but not objectionably so. Astrotrain had paid for transportation -- fueling the both of them for a trip did cost some -- and transit time. Swindle had gone over the session plan with him step by step and agreed to an extended session, but not before setting up regular breaks for himself. He didn’t like the idea of sessions that stretched on and on. It was going to be odd spending two days out of the base playing pet, off and on.

The location was another oddity, but it made sense for all its strangeness. Astrotrain had sought out subway systems and metros the world over in his spare time, fascinated and bizarrely attracted to the clusters of trains. Swindle honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he’d tried hitching up and hauling cars a few times. Astrotrain’s Earth altmode apparently came with the same odd connection glitch that preyed on the starved social nature of most spacefarers. In space, most shuttleformers would take any opportunity to cozy up to even nonsentient ships. It seemed that trains had that same social craving. 

However, after Astrotrain’s ill-fated takeover conspiracy with Blitzwing, the train-shuttle had been forbidden from going near other trains. During missions, of course it was allowed. Outside of that, there was an engine-limit on how many trains he could be near at any one time. Boxcars were no problem; train engines were strictly limited to two. The AstroForce, ludicrous as it’d been, wouldn’t be allowed to happen again.

Swindle sensed Soundwave’s delicately cruel touch behind that particular restriction. It was more of a punishment than anything meant to prevent another takeover attempt. Although if Astrotrain was anything like Blast Off, he tended to personify nonsentient starships -- trains as well, in Astrotrain’s case -- and get confused about the numbers of people involved in any given operation because of their presence. Astrotrain probably _had_ thought he’d had an army of loyal followers at one point, the same as Blast Off had been utterly convinced (until Onslaught smacked him back to sanity) that the American shuttle _Atlantis_ was flirting with him.

It was sometimes difficult to remember that Earth’s machines weren’t real. Real in the sense of living beings, at least. Swindle couldn’t count the number of times he’d been in a city and sworn some sleek sports car number had the hots for him, what with the way brake lights kept flashing.

So Swindle didn’t really get why they had to come all the way out to an abandoned train yard in Texas, but he _got it_ all the same. Astrotrain had a craving, an altmode itch, and hanging out on the tracks among rusted out, empty boxcars made him feel better. The triplechanger had pulled up and settled in with a sigh of hydraulics easing, and he didn’t seem inclined to move anytime soon.

Also in his alternate form, Swindle drove about, using every bit of his off-road suspension system and four-wheel drive to roll over the tracks and off into the ghost town that’d once centered around the yard. Every once and a while, a deep _whonk_ called him back, and he bumped back into the train yard to explore among the boxcars again, within sight of his temporary master. Eventually, his investigations led him to stray again, and off he’d bounce into the town. 

_Whonk_.

And back he’d go.

When night fell, long and slow across the endless sky of the prairie, the train in the middle of the yard stirred at last. Astrotrain blew his horn, and car headlights preceded the Jeep down the tracks toward him. Swindle had managed to get his tires onto the tracks, aligning them perfectly on either side of the rails themselves with a little trick of his axle that Earth cars couldn’t imitate. He rolled down the tracks, chugging his comparatively small motor as he went.

Astrotrain rumbled a laugh at the cute imitation. Like owner, like pet mech. “Come here.”

Swindle strained his horn up as high as it’d go for a steam-whistle tweet in reply before driving off the tracks. It wasn’t entirely comfortable because of the way he had to drive his left side’s wheels up onto the railroad ties, but he nestled up close beside the much larger Decepticon’s altmode. He talked with his horn the whole time, peeping and beeping to Astrotrain.

Who flexed his plating to allow hot air to draft down onto him, combating the chill of the Texas night. Swindle purred his comparatively tiny engine and snuggled close enough to press his doors and tires to the train’s wheels.

“There you go,” the triple-changer’s multi-tonal voice crooned. “Recharge, now.”

Swindle tweeted again and let his headlights dim down slowly as if he were drifting off. Astrotrain kept venting heat down onto him. He didn’t actually need the extra help staying comfortable, but the hot air felt nice. When he gave a little shiver and inched yet closer, the train redirected his ventilation system and gaped armor in his side open in a way that had to hurt a bit, just to keep the air flow going in a steady, warm stream.

Somehow, the train managed to recharge like that. Swindle settled down to work on his accounts as soon as he was sure Astrotrain had conked out. He’d recharged on the way here and didn’t need as much down time tonight. It was the illusion of caring for and protecting him for the night that the triplechanger had paid for. As long as Swindle stayed still, it was fine. 

He still work up before Astrotrain did in the morning. He greeted the dawn by repeatedly nudging his temporary owner with his bumper and beeping impatiently. When Astrotrain didn’t stir fast enough, the Jeep zipped off in a hyperactive loop, bumping energetically over the tracks and returning to push his bumper up against Astrotrain’s front grill like the needy pet he was playing. He backed off and sank his front end low on his suspension, twitching his rear tires and giving demanding revs of his motor before flashing his headlights and shoving at Astrotrain again. In pet-speak, he was demanding attention _now_ , get up _now_ , toy mech wanted to play!

As soon as the triple-changer transformed, however, the Jeep reversed and took off into the maze of abandoned box cars, trailing a gleeful imitation steam-whistle as he went. _’Catch meeee~!’_

Astrotrain threw his head back and laughed. “I’m coming!” he called. The mech was far too large to stalk silently, but Swindle hid behind a box car and pretended he didn’t hear the crunch of approaching footsteps as his master followed after him. “Gotcha!”

A large hand darted around the box car, and Swindle’s horn bleated. He threw himself into second gear and jounced across the tracks, heading for another cluster of boxcars to hide in. Astrotrain, still laughing, stomped dramatically after. “You can’t escape!”

Eventually, the triple-changer tired of the game and ‘caught’ him. The Jeep didn’t struggle overmuch when the huge Decepticon nabbed him by the back end and dragged him, beeping and turning his wheels helplessly against all that strength, into his lap. Astrotrain took a moment to pinch those wheels and wiggle them between his fingers, smiling. Swindle opened his doors and clicked his locks in protest. Turning his steering wheel only made Astrotrain chuckle and tweak those futilely spinning wheels some more. The Jeep turned on his windshield wipers, too, still beeping and clicking his locks as he was cradled in Astrotrain’s arms and picked up. 

One big hand reached under to stroke his undercarriage, blocky fingers gentle. Swindle growled his engine, but his spark wasn’t in it. Astrotrain knew it, too. Those fingers stroked over the vulnerable points usually hidden from sight and potential exploitation, and the soothing caress eventually wore down the small grounder’s defenses. The doors closed slowly. The click of locks tapered off. A finger stroked over the top of his windshield earned a token flop of his wipers before Swindle settled down, engine grumbling slightly but mostly purring.

Astrotrain had him tamed to hand and driving in donuts around him in the abandoned train yard before the triple-changer brought out the towline and tied it to his trailer hitch. Swindle drove in more circles, trying to figure out this strange thing attached to him, and that’s when his master set about training him to drag a boxcar. 

It was just one of those days, for Swindle the pet mech.

**[* * * * *]**


	17. Pt. 17

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Seventeen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Swindle hated the desert. A spiteful god made sure that he got assigned there for two years.

“You’ll still be kept up to date on current finances and purchase orders,” Ratbat said, and Swindle fancied that he heard a tinge of apology in his boss’s voice. “I want bi-weekly reports on production. Octane will handle the shipping end, but I want your numbers before he lands so I can double check tallies.” In other words, Swindle and Octane needed to coordinate their skimming so the books balanced. Not a difficult procedure if they didn’t get greedy and held a molecule of trust toward each other. “Keep communication to a minimum. We’ll be diverting attention as needed, but the Autobots will eventually notice the Combaticons aren’t in the field. Sky Spy will be looking for you. Don’t give it reason to look toward the drilling operation.”

Because that’s what one of the most powerful gestalts on Earth had been assigned to: drilling oil. It was a ridiculously abundant natural resource on Earth, at least if mechs were willing to take the time to extract and refine it. And put up with sand in every single fragging gear. Solar panel recharging by the mechs assigned to work the drilling operation meant that every ounce of oil pumped out of the vast reservoir they’d located would be refined and shipped out via Octane’s massive holding tanks.

It was an operation requiring teamwork beyond just cooperation. The team involved had to have a variety of skills and be able to tolerate each other for more than a few months at a time. Once in place, the drill’s cover required that the mechs operating it minimized activity. They couldn’t risk leaving the facility in order to keep stray Autobot or human radar from picking them up.

Unit commanders had dodged every which way the moment Ratbat laid the proposal before Megatron. Starscream had smugly stood his ground, knowing that nobody could replace him for two years -- and that nobody could tolerate him in close quarters half that long. Soundwave had immersed himself in finding whatever Starscream’s latest plot was even if the Air Commander didn’t currently have one, because surely Megatron wouldn’t risk sending the Comm. Officer away if his Second was up to something. Ramjet had begun looking claustrophobic just staring at the proposal outline. Motormaster had sunk so low in his chair he’d looked like he was hiding under his helm cowl. Scrapper had begun drawing up plans for new weapons of mass destruction out of pure self-defense.

Onslaught, least favored of Megatron’s officers, had sat there like a deer in headlights as doom descended upon him.

That’s how events had been described to Swindle, anyway, and he had little reason to doubt Ratbat’s description. He hated the Cassette’s mechanical innards for getting him assigned to the sandy aft end of nowhere, but he didn’t doubt his word about how Onslaught had squirmed as he reluctantly accepted the assignment.

None of the Combaticons were happy about the assignment, but Megatron’s word was law to their loyalty programming. Swindle sourly bent before the command and started packing. Two years in the desert with his gestalt, three of whom numbered among his least favorite people of all time. If Onslaught laid a _hand_ on him, Swindle was going to find a way to sell the mech’s head as an oilpan to the Autobots.

His mood must have been pretty obvious when he stalked into Blast Off’s hold, because Vortex and Onslaught took one look at him and decided to keep their conversation up near the crew cabin. Typical of Brawl, the tank had already strapped himself in and gone into recharge. Swindle threw his locker down on the floor beside him, tied it down, and sullenly strapped himself down on it to wait for departure. Two fragging years of sand. 

Onslaught waited until they were in the air to make his move. “Swindle.”

“If this isn’t directly related to the mission, I don’t want to hear it,” the smallest Combaticon snapped curtly, but that was his standard response to anything his three disliked teammates said. Relations between them were hostile at worst, a cold war at best. 

The Jeep turned his head warily, however. Two years in the desert, unable to get away from each other? They were plummeting headfirst into the Pit, here.

“We will periodically be receiving visitors. For inspections, resupplies, and the like,” his unit commander said slowly, almost feeling out the words. 

Swindle nodded just as slowly, wondering where this was going. Of course they would be. Five Cybertronians couldn’t survive in the middle of the desert indefinitely on solar energy alone.

Onslaught’s visor slid away from him, and the Jeep squinted, suspicious. “I would prefer, for the sake of team…cohesiveness, that you refrain from interacting with any potential visitors in a -- “ He seemed to change his mind about what he wanted to say and swiftly reworded, “That is, in a way that’s less than -- “ No, that didn’t work either. The visor glanced toward Swindle and away again. “Outside of the mission parameters.”

It took the merchant a minute to untangle that. When he did, he started laughing. Onslaught stoically looked over his shoulder the whole while, refusing to meet the mocking purple optics glittering across the cargo hold at him.

When he finally laughing himself out, Swindle kept the wicked smirk as he asked, “You don’t want me to hire myself out, you mean?”

Onslaught’s jaw worked under his face mask. Vents opened and closed. 

“What? Is the idea of being in the same building while I play pet **that** uncomfortable?” He looked sidelong at Brawl meaningfully. The tank didn’t give a slag what Swindle did in his spare time. Most of the Decepticons didn’t. Yet for some reason, even Vortex couldn’t look at him straight right now. The helicopter was leaning against Blast Off’s cabin door, visor studiously averted as he pretended not to hear the stilted conversation happening in front of him.

Onslaught made a soft noise of protest that died before it became words. The answer, obviously, was yes. It did make them that uncomfortable.

Swindle laughed out loud again, careless and cruel. He wanted to do it. He wanted Thundercracker to ping him every month requesting a session out there in the desert, just so he could feel the silent second-hand embarrassment ooze off Onslaught’s rusted hull. He wondered if it’d be enough to drive Blast Off into breaking orders and escaping into orbit. Would Vortex fly off into the desert?

It was a wonderful fantasy. 

After indulging his imagination for a moment, the Jeep tamped down his amusement. “You want to cut into my profits, Onslaught? You really want to drive that bargain? You’ve got to give me something, then.”

Two visors turned toward him, oddly apprehensive. Vortex edged behind the door as if seeking shelter from an unstable bomb that might blow up in their faces at any moment. Swindle could almost feel Blast Off’s internal sensors turn toward him as well. 

Only their commander stood his ground. “What do you want?” Onslaught asked, neutral.

Pretty purple optics were sharp enough to cut as they stared down the larger Decepticon. “Leave me alone. If it isn’t directly related to the mission, I don’t want to hear or see you. Any of you: you,” he pointed at Onslaught, “him,” he jerked his thumb at the closest wall, “and especially not **him**.” Vortex’s visor narrowed, but the helicopter held his vocalizer in check. “Keep him away from me, and you two stay away as much as possible.”

The frown was audible. “We’ll be in the same facility for two years. You can’t mean to isolate yourself from us for the whole -- “

“I don’t care,” Swindle interrupted. “I’ll keep myself occupied, and we already know we don’t need to combine to keep the gestalt links satisfied. You leave me alone, and I won’t play pet for whoever comes calling. Deal?”

Onslaught stared at him for a long moment. “…deal.”

“Good.” A chilly smile, and Swindle nodded to him. “A pleasure doing business with you.” Onslaught stiffened but caught himself, and Swindle’s smile widened into something cold enough to kill. He nodded to the Combaticon leader again before ignoring him.

Suddenly, two years in the sandy Pit seemed a lot more tolerable. Maybe the gods liked Swindle after all. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	18. Pt. 18

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Eighteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

Onslaught honored the words of their bargain, but he pushed the limits of what constituted part of the mission. He stuck Swindle with the worst duties and set out to make the small grounder miserable for spiting him via cut rations, insufficient repairs, and poor maintenance. Worst of all for the gestalt links, Onslaught forbid Brawl from being near the merchant off-duty. 

Vortex didn’t speak to him or go near him, as per the agreement, but there were ways to get around that. Onslaught pretended ignorance of every little trap or broken item.

Everything, it was hinted, could change if the Jeep warmed up to the rest of the Combaticons. Accepted his place. Did what Onslaught wanted without fighting for independence outside the unit. 

Swindle grit his teeth and bore the abuse. He wasn't one of Onslaught's military pieces to move about some sort of tactical board. He wouldn't fall in line behind the mech like a brainwashed soldier. This slagging idea that _he_ was in the wrong didn’t fly with him!

He didn't have much to work with, but the merchant fought back.

He started small. A month into the assignment, he took a picture of his plating and sent it via a round-about route to Soundwave.

Two days later, his standard information packet from Ratbat included a nonstandard transmission from Soundwave. Swindle smiled to himself and didn't send a reply.

After a sandstorm three weeks later, he took another picture. He sent it to Soundwave _and_ Reflector this time. All of the Combaticons, by now, were scuffed and dull. Post-storm and desert sun, Swindle's colors had faded to an ugly violet and pale yellow. His tires were dusty grey all the time, now. He took a short video of the slow, lazy turn of his dirty shoulder tires and passed that on as well.

At the five month mark, Astrotrain resupplied the operation. He brought standard grade energon, clean filters, and joint lubricant by the barrel. Vortex almost tackled him on arrival. The helicopter's entire rotor array was a creaking, grinding mass of dry machinery, and Onslaught had to punch him to get any of the lubricant for the rest of the team.

While that drama played out, Swindle kept to himself and helped Brawl move the supplies inside. He carefully didn't smile when Astrotrain transformed to help and just happened to end up working alongside him.

The triplechanger waited a few minutes before getting to the point. "I have a few hours before Soundwave's hole in the Autobots’ network opens again. If you're in the mood to be taken care of, I can think of a few ways to work with that," Astrotrain said, sly tone suggesting that he was thinking of something a lot more lewd than what Swindle knew he was actually planning.

Swindle ignored the hint and barely flicked a glance at the larger Decepticon. "No can do, buddy. Onslaught's decided I'm off the market." He gave a regretful little smile, as if he'd had no say in the matter. Because of course he'd make time for one of his customers otherwise! Surely. 

"Oh." Astrotrain shut up while they moved supplies. When they eventually finished, he squinted up at the sky and fished, "Maybe next time..?"

"I doubt it. Onslaught seems pretty set on stopping the pet thing." His tone made it sound like the halt was permanent, and he added some more regret to his expression. What could poor little Swindle do against his gestalt commander? Poor, poor Swindle. He just couldn’t go against Onslaught, now could he?

If Onslaught noticed Astrotrain frowning at him before leaving, the Combaticon leader didn't say anything. He seemed relieved that Swindle had honored their bargain, in fact.

A few more months passed. Swindle passed out a few more pictures and failed to respond to Reflector and Soundwave's under-the-table messages in return. If it wasn't official correspondence, he played good Decepticon and stayed silent. Per Onslaught’s orders, of course.

Thundercracker stopped at the base to run a surprise inspection on the drilling operation a year into the mission. It probably should have been Starscream or one of the Constructicons. Swindle failed to be surprised that the Seeker had shown up instead.

He made his excuses when Thundercracker inevitably got around to asking. Routine was a powerful draw. Thundercracker had gotten comfortable having an outlet for relaxing, and taking it away disturbed him. 

Having it held out of reach by Onslaught did not make him a happy mech.

Swindle didn't watch him leave, but Onslaught gave the merchant a narrow look before the sound of jet engines disappeared in the desert air. It might have had to do with the increasingly cold reception from Soundwave when the commander made his reports, or Astrotrain's snarl during supply drops. Something had happened to make Onslaught persona-non-grata to certain Decepticons, and he was beginning to pick up on the chilly vibes. 

Swindle blinked at him innocently and went about his business in the sand. Only a year longer to wait.

He sent a few pictures. He said a few things. Technically he spoke the truth every time, and he obeyed mission regulations. He just made sure that the implications that he couldn’t do anything _more_ landed the blame squarely on Onslaught every time.

Two years could cause a lot of damage, as his interfering, overly controlling gestalt leader was going to find out.

**[* * * * *]**


	19. Pt. 19

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Nineteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

Megatron was predisposed to dislike Onslaught’s very existence. Onslaught knew that. 

Swindle could almost see his gestalt commander’s confusion, however, when they walked onto the bridge and Megatron turned to _glare_. Ignoring or showing contempt toward the Combaticons was standard procedure. This was not. The level of hostility rose steeply the moment Onslaught approached their Lord, and that was unusual.

“Onslaught,” Megatron said, every word a threat, and circuit-based reflex had the gestalt commander jerking into a salute before he’d gotten halfway across the bridge. “It seems my faith in the loyalty program was misplaced. Would you care to explain these **discrepancies** in your reports?”

Those were words no Decepticon wanted to hear from his superior, especially from a superior wearing a fusion cannon. It gave the low whine of charging energy weapons everywhere. 

Onslaught tensed further, but he stayed extremely still instead of diving for cover. His voice fought to stay calm as he picked his words carefully. “Forgive me, Lord Megatron, but I was unaware of any discrepancies. If I could have a moment to analyze any, ah,” he swallowed, “problems, I’m sure they can be easily excused as minor clerical errors.” 

Swindle kept his optics downcast and slightly dull, but he could see the way Onslaught’s visor flickered toward Soundwave. The gestalt commander silently asked for help, for information, for _anything_ , but Soundwave’s expressionless face somehow managed a cold look. Someone had to compile all those discrepancies and bring them to Megatron’s attention. If they had been minor errors before, two years of separating them out of context and adding them up had made a major discipline issue out of what had likely been small things like a missing oil barrel here or there, an unauthorized helicopter flight or two, a shuttle taking out an unlucky group of humans on flimsy pretenses just because it had been a long month and the humans might have eventually wandered close enough to spot the drilling operation. The consistent small injury reports to one particular Combaticon certainly didn’t speak well of the unit, especially if one was suspicious enough to connect the missing oil with, perhaps, Onslaught putting pressure on the mech responsible for reporting operation production numbers.

If Megatron hadn’t been made that connection himself, Swindle had no doubt that Soundwave had subtly pointed him toward seeing it. Onslaught would soon realize that he had no allies in factual information, not with Soundwave manipulating it. What reports hadn’t had errors before transmission had passed through Soundwave _and_ Reflector’s hands upon arrival. 

Swindle had contained his greed in the last two years; every number he’d recorded had been scrupulously accurate. It’d kind of hurt letting that much energy go without skimming any. However, the barrels of oil and the refined energon had been transported by Octane, a close buddy of Astrotrain, and been received by Mixmaster, who had likely been hearing some troubling rumors going around from those Decepticons interested in such things. The end result of the merchant’s honesty was well worth it.

As for cool reason prevailing, that was a lost cause. Starscream stood behind Megatron’s shoulder wearing the thinnest cruel smirk in his arsenal. While asking favors of the Air Commander never ended well, giving Starscream cause to make Onslaught’s life miserable was as easy as Thundercracker being in a bad mood for two years. 

The other Combaticons waited, a group of soldier statues standing at attention, until Megatron’s demanding gesture ordered Onslaught forward. Their commander winced and reluctantly stepped into punching range, not sure why or how but knowing there wasn’t an excuse he could give that’d get him out of this. Whatever this was going to be.

“He’s going to beat the scrap out of him,” Vortex breathed, rotor blades rigid and visor locked straight ahead. 

Blast Off stood just as stiff beside him. “Only once he’s done stripping him raw. Look at Soundwave.” The communication specialist’s complete lack of expression made his lack of sympathy plain as he brought up the first of the ‘discrepancies’ for Megatron to start lambasting Onslaught over. Onslaught’s pride would be looking for a hole to hide in once Megatron started stomping on it. “He’ll be crawling for a beating before Soundwave’s half done sanding him down to a stub.”

“Do we have to stand here and watch?” Brawl asked plaintively, if under his breath. “This’s gonna take a while.” Starscream had that look. Even if Megatron ran out of steam, the Air Commander seemed in the mood to prod events onward against all reason and despite Onslaught’s attempts to appease the trio of superior officers glaring him down.

Swindle edged sideways, pushing against his arm and nudging him out of Megatron’s direct line of sight. “Let’s just head elsewhere, shall we?” 

The two Combaticons at his back shuffled along with them, until the whole group inched to the other side of the bridge in one clump, trying not to look like they were fleeing. Nobody was fooled, but Onslaught shot them one desperate look before going back to frantically trying to defend himself from the accusations now coming at a blistering roar. Megatron was _not_ happy.

Only once they were safely out of reach for easy targeting did Vortex’s rotor array relax and Blast Off stop putting the other three Combaticons between himself at their irate Lord. Megatron had a habit of making grandiose gestures with the arm bearing his fusion cannon, and it was a disconcerting habit for mechs who were apparently rated as disposable. Onslaught’s confidence in his value to the Decepticon Lord had already eroded to the point where he flinched whenever that cannon moved.

“This is bad,” the shuttle said quietly, looking away from the spectacle -- to find that Swindle was already in a low-voiced conversation with the Reflector components. “Swindle!”

The Jeep merely sighed and shrugged at the camera mechs. “As you can see, I’m still rather constrained. It’s unfortunate, but until Onslaught gets his hands out of my business again, sessions are closed.” The small Decepticons turned their eerily unified gaze on the shuttle staring at them in surprise, and Swindle slapped a weary, practiced smile on. “Now, now. Don’t blame Blast Off for going along with Onslaught’s orders. It’s not like he’s an independent mech, after all.” 

The jibe was sharp enough to cut. Swindle angled an innocent look upward, purple optics sparkling and vicious, while the Reflector components snorted a laugh. Blast Off’s head jerked back, he recoiled so hard, and Brawl went, “Whoa,” very softly.

“What are you **doing**?” Vortex hissed when Reflector murmured an agreement and excused themselves to go get a better view of the ongoing show on the other side of the bridge. Megatron was in full cry, and Onslaught’s hands were open in helpless pleading as he tried to reason with his infuriated Lord. “The mission’s over! You can go frag whoever the frag you want however you want, now! They’re going to get mad at us because **you** \-- “ He stopped short, visor wide.

Beside him, Blast Off’s visor had snapped just as wide. Slowly, the shuttle turned his helm toward the shouting and sudden cannonfire. Onslaught’s yelp of pain was cut off by Megatron’s enraged, “Be **silent**!” before the tyrant began ripping apart another error.

“Oh, sorry,” Swindle said lightly. He smiled that business smile of his. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of mechs interfering in my business. Maybe you should cut that out.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	20. Pt. 20

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Twenty**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

This had all the hallmarks of an inexperienced client figuring out what this whole ‘pet’ thing meant. Hands hesitated inches from his plating, not sure where it was okay to touch. Not sure how to, in all likelihood. Decepticons -- and before them, the military builds and business clientele he’d worked with as a merchant -- didn’t do a lot of casual physical contact. Before the war, it’d been more common. Jostling in the streets without scanners on full power for active weaponry on the rooftops or an angry mech ready to lash out at the first target, simply passing strangers in halls without suspicion that even a brush of armor might be taken the wrong way, and the ready clasp of hands together when two mechs met for the first time. 

Now nobody reached out to clasp hands upon introduction. Violence had become the norm. Physical contact was intimidation, attack, evaluation, or sexual. The era of neutral metal-on-metal touch had long passed.

Every first-time client, new to the pet experience, struggled with rediscovering nonsexual, nonviolent touch. The struggle also hinged on the client’s reaction to finding that neutral territory. The war had gone on so long that the act of touching someone outside the context of threat or interfacing often inspired a nauseating squirm of shame inside the clients, as if they’d get caught any moment being unacceptably juvenile.

Return clients were the ones who bulled through the unreasonable fear of being caught. They were the ones who found rediscovering the concept of normal touch to be refreshing. Some of his clients liked the thrill of something illicit, but not most of them. Most of them became addicted to the simple physical contact they couldn’t get elsewhere: not from lovers, friends, or allies.

Swindle the toy mech was small, cute, and pliable. Sessions were a safety zone where judgment didn’t happen, and the constant hostility of the Decepticon faction was left at the point of purchase. Unlike interfacing, there was no building pressure to reach a pinnacle or perform. Swindle did what the client wanted, but the expectations behind the general category of ‘bought mech’ just weren’t there. Instead, sessions involved a different kind of care, a completely separate sort of appreciation, and the physical contact he invited gave his clients a pressure valve the majority of Decepticons had no idea they needed until they left a session wondering when they’d relaxed.

Human studies showed that having a pet lowered blood pressure. Decepticons had similar tensions built up by millions of years of war and life in it, and a pet mech bled it off just as effectively.

Swindle kept his optics offline under the blindfold and patiently waited. Nerves jangled around his spark casing, but the purchase had been made. His failsafes were in place. If something _did_ happen, rescue would be on its way in minutes. Minutes that would hurt, but anyone stupid enough to assault him here and now would regret the pain more.

Here and now, as he’d explained to the client, he was a toy mech. He wasn’t fully there. His head was paid to be empty. Whatever judgment he, Swindle the merchant, made on the client’s choice of activity would never enter his face or body language. His opinion didn’t matter, once the session events had been agreed on and the price had been paid. Client privacy, like every deal he made outside of official Decepticon channels, would remain inviolate. Discussion of his pet experiences would remain on general terms under any circumstance but Megatron’s orders, and he wouldn’t speak directly to the client about what happened in-session unless the client indicated that that was okay.

Thundercracker had no compunctions about discussing pet sessions in public; Soundwave did. Swindle hadn’t screwed up his client files yet on their preferences. Discretion was something any merchant learnt when the merchandise or the purchase of it might embarrass customers.

He had a whole file of first-time clients who’d found having a pet wasn’t for them. It’d take the threat of death for him to reveal just who those mechs were, just like any other client list.

Ultimately, it was his dedication to his trade that’d convinced today’s customer to give a pet session a try. It was the sheer amount of cash (and the perseverance, because he’d gotten really fed up with being asked every time he turned around) that’d convinced Swindle to even take him as a client. The blindfold had been voluntary, however. Give him some credit. He’d done this before, and he knew what it took to make a first-timer comfortable.

That didn’t mean he had to let the mech hesitate forever. He didn’t have all day. Swindle had asked the mech a few questions to get him thinking beforehand: what would he do, if he could touch someone however he liked so long as it was painless and not meant to arouse? What was the very first thing that came to mind when that kind of freedom was on the table? 

Call him cynical, but Swindle knew where most mech’s minds went these days when given total access to someone. Painless and nonsexual were important qualifiers, because he wasn’t interested in going down those paths. 

There were a few things those same mechs all did in common when given a couple pointer questions. Normally, the Jeep would wait for the client to start exploring on his own, but he didn’t have the patience for this particular client. He lifted one hand and sent a text: _[Here. Start here.]_

His hand was taken slowly, uncertainly. The mech just held it for a minute, wondering what he was supposed to do. Swindle could almost feel him turning the questions over in his mind. There weren’t clues buried in them somewhere. They were straightforward questions. Innocence had to be found in a Decepticon’s own way. Swindle couldn’t sell a road map for someone’s personal rediscovery of touch outside current boundaries.

Fingers slid up the back of his hand. A thumb rubbed over the wrist joint. Uncertain, the mech explored his hand as if trying to figure out what it was, rocking the knuckles back and forth and running fingertips between his fingers. 

But eventually, it happened. Every client Swindle had ever taken did this at some point or another. The mech pressed their hands together, palm to palm, and stopped. 

Swindle kept his lips from twitching in amusement. He was small. He knew that. For an Autobot, or formerly for a civilian, he was of average size. He was a normal groundframe built without reinforcement for rough roads, load-bearing, or hauling. He’d added minimal armor and reinforcement after the war started, compromising between better weaponry and his mobility advantage as a lighter vehicle. The heavier struts and plating he’d gotten as a Combaticon unit had upset him slightly because of the loss of flexibility, but he was still a small mech compared to a typical Decepticon.

It was one thing for larger Decepticons to look down at him and notice he was shorter and lighter. It was a totally different set of circumstances to put their hands together and have the time to sit there and stare at the difference. The hand against his own turned a bit and slowly closed, lacing their hands together, larger fingers between smaller. It opened again, and this time was the examination had a sense of purpose about it. Fingers were compared side by side. The lines of his palm structure were traced by curious finger tips.

When he didn’t react, the exploration moved up his arms. Every touch was hesitant but trying not to seem hesitant. The mech tested his reactions minute by minute, expecting him to laugh or lash out, but he didn’t. Touching without reaction allowed the customer to indulge curiosity, and Swindle knew it felt strange. Decepticons weren’t _supposed to_ allow this. They also weren’t supposed to _do_ it. 

Some mechs liked it. Some didn’t. The first session, at least, tended to follow the same general trend as mechs figured this whole physical contact thing out. That’s why Swindle put a short time limit on the first session and didn’t do any sort of follow-up contact. Mechs decided on their own, no pressure, whether they liked Swindle the pet mech.

The tires. Most of the Decepticons and every one of the military builds went for the tires. Even before the war had started and knocked out the highways, Swindle had been a little unusual for having tires, but he’d done a lot of trading off-world. Not every place had the smooth surfaces that made standard anti-gravity hover propulsion preferable to shock absorbers in a good suspension system. So Swindle sat there and tolerated hands busily investigating the bouncy rubber. That was normal curiosity. They pinched the treads and pressed curiously against the axle. Softness in a metal frame inspired a need to touch it. They were rolled and stopped, pushed and prodded. A palm pressed to his hubcap as finger tips gripped around the circumference, testing the give like he was a fruit being tested for ripeness. Rotate, squeeze; rotate, squeeze. 

By the end of the paid time, the hands had finally gotten to his helm. Swindle ducked his helm a bit, pushing into the gentlest touches running along the top of the blindfold. He didn’t react to the tapping over his audios or the chuck under his chin. He encouraged petting only. When a thumb ran over his lips, he didn’t move at all. The back of knuckle joints running up the side of his face got him cocking his head, like a curious beast wondering at the touch. A single fingertip down the bridge of his nose brought a low noise from his vocalizer, as did that same fingertip tracing back up to lay on the center of his forehelm.

His timer beeped. The Jeep shook his head free of the hand on it and sat back to peel the blindfold up off his optics. “Time’s up.”

His client looked away. He had no idea what that expression meant. Hands that had so recently touched him laid open on the mech’s lap, palms upward and fingers curling open and shut slowly. “I still don’t understand.” The admission was reluctant.

“You don’t have to,” Swindle said shortly as he stood to leave. “Just stop acting like you do.”

That got a slow headshake, confusion rather than skepticism. “But it’s my job to understand things like this. I have to be able to understand why people do this stuff in order to figure out how to break their reasoning. It’s -- “ Another headshake, harder and more frustrated as he failed to understand. “The psychology of this shouldn’t be so hard to grasp!”

Swindle looked at him, indifferent. He certainly wasn’t going to share his thoughts on it. “That’s your problem, not mine. You got Scrapper to pressure me into this as a ‘professional courtesy’ once, but you’re on your own, now. Don’t ask me again.” 

Vortex watched him leave, troubled, and his hands continued to flex as if they felt Swindle slipping away despite how they'd tried to hold on.

**[* * * * *]**


	21. Pt. 21

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Twenty-One**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

He hadn’t expected it, but he was bored.

Maybe it wasn’t boredom so much as it was the awareness that he wasn’t making money when he could be. Idleness didn’t usually bother him, although Swindle tried not to indulge too often. Working meant money. He didn’t take time off, because that meant the money wouldn’t keep coming in. 

Put in that context, the merchant worked as much or harder than most of the Decepticons. His off-duty time was spent culturing his personal business instead of official finances, but he requested overtime in the event of a particularly involved deal for the Decepticons. Ratbat, in return, gave him the freedom to occasionally disappear from the base pursuing his own credits. It was a polite tit-for-tat working relationship that had sustained Swindle the Decepticon and Swindle the arms merchant side-by-side but off the books since the war had started.

In a faction where superior officers could beat the slag out of a subordinate and take all his stuff, Swindle had entire warehouses full of stock. What could he say? He was good at charming those who kept his merchant aft safe from petty violence and robbery by greedy officers.

But there came a time when all the pretty purple optics blinking up at Soundwave and the expensive gifts to Ratbat didn’t help in the slightest, and that’s why Swindle was standing at attention in a warehouse on the docks of Toledo. Because when Megatron skewered a Combaticon with a command, that Combaticon had even less ability to object to orders than a Decepticons normally did. Even if it had required Swindle listing his assets in front of Onslaught for his Lord’s edification. 

The look in Onslaught’s visor had almost had that worth it. His gestalt commander had done everything physically possible to trap and subdue the Jeep, but Swindle had spent the time since Onslaught’s first threat building a barrier up between himself and the rest of the Combaticons. He’d made a buffer zone of money and business, and Onslaught hadn’t known. Onslaught hadn’t had the slightest hint of just how far the merchant’s network of contacts and business dealings had reached since coming to Earth.

Of course, Swindle’s subtle gloating at Onslaught’s shock had been paved flat by Megatron’s anger over some of those contacts being Autobot. But, well, it was _business_. It wasn’t like Swindle went out of his way to make deals with the Autobots! As he explained hurriedly to Megatron, prices got a minimum 35% markup whenever the client had Autobot sympathies, and he _never_ brokered a deal that would directly impact Decepticon dealings on Earth.

The truth had saved his tires from his Lord’s fury, but Megatron still decided to do an inspection of Swindle’s wares. Which was fine for the most part -- nobody cared about the Decepticons showing up in Toledo, honestly, as long as they didn’t knock down the Cheesecake Factory or Spaghetti Warehouse -- but Megatron’s interest drew spectators. When the head honcho took notice, that meant that suddenly Ratbat peered that much closer at Swindle’s affairs. All his discreet non-Decepticon dealings came to a screeching halt to prevent detection from higher-ups. Swindle didn’t do supervised business. 

So for a month and a half, Swindle had been sitting around doing nothing on his off-time. When he wasn’t giving Megatron the guided tour of his various warehouses throughout the world, the Jeep got to sit around exploring the exciting underwater off-duty life of a mech who was used to being busy all the time.

Primus, he’d never been so bored in all his life. He wasn’t losing money, per se, but the merchant was going half-mad with the fact that he wasn’t making a single cent. Except for his investments, but a mech could only check the stock market forty times an hour before realizing he might have a compulsion.

Being unable to make any money during his off-time made him that much more vindictive against the mech who thought interfering in his business was his right. Onslaught hadn’t put an embargo on Swindle’s pet sessions outside of the oil mission, but neither had he done anything approaching an apology or acknowledgment about what he had done. The slagger had no right sticking his fingers in the merchant’s off-duty time. Swindle intended to rub his face in that until Onslaught fragging well accepted that Swindle wasn’t his lackey, would never _be_ his lackey, and refused to be treated as one!

His bad mood after returning from the land of sand had folded over into the effort. Swindle had continued turning down session requests and off-handedly implying that Onslaught was still interfering. The more antsy he got, stuck underwater without business to run, the more vicious those implications became. 

By now, his regular clients’ _friends_ were starting to get in on the act. Skywarp had begun stealing the Combaticon base’s emergency medical equipment and hiding it in the lower underwater levels to rust. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had caught Vortex insulting the Constructicons, who were now making the helicopter’s life a living smelter pit in revenge. Blast Off had gotten an extended series of atmospheric flight lessons with the Air Commander himself when both Blitzwing and Astrotrain filed complaints against his lack of planet-side flight technique.

Brawl was being watched like some kind of barometer of Swindle’s mood, on the other hand. Was the merchant feeling cuddly today? Only Brawl might know.

Swindle wasn’t surprised when his gestalt commander stayed behind when Megatron finished the tour and left. The merchant checked inventory and locked up, and there was Onslaught waiting outside, as inconspicuous as a gigantic military missile-truck could be in Toledo. 

The Cheesecake Factory wasn’t in danger, so pretty inconspicuous. None of the humans down by the river even looked at them funny when a Jeep and the huge truck tailing him went calmly down the freeway toward Cleveland. They’d transform and take off once they were in the hills. One Decepticon launching from the dock area could get away unnoticed, but three would cause a call to the Autobots. If Swindle lost his Toledo warehouses because of carelessness, he really would set out to make Onslaught regret being gestalt-bound to him.

They drove for about an hour before Onslaught started riding his bumper. When he refused to stop ignoring the larger Combaticon, Onslaught conceded and pinged him with, “We need to talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“This can’t continue.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He flashed his tail lights innocently.

“What do you want from me?” Onslaught asked bluntly, flashing his brights in return. The other drivers on the road were giving the military truck a wide berth, and the flashing lights only widened that space. “An apology? Fine. I apologize for putting the unit’s comfort above your personal gain.”

That was an exceptionally bitter non-apology. “I’ll accept that apology precisely as it’s meant,” he said, changing lanes as traffic slowed. It looked like there was an accident up ahead. The slower speeds nestled Onslaught right up against his spare tire when the whole lane came gradually to a halt. Onslaught’s fan blew hot air on him. That was obnoxious of him. “Yes? Did you want something more, or were you going to threaten me some more for being a business mech instead of your personal reconnaissance drone?”

More hot air blew through the grill pressed against his tire. “Soundwave,” Onslaught said, forcing the words out through a grudging vocalizer, “has approached me to inquire as to terms for…purchasing your time. As it has been my…discomfort with your activities that seems to have caused the problems between us, I informed him that you are for sale at any time such activities would remain out of public viewing.”

Swindle’s axles locked, and Onslaught gave a small grunt as his bumper suddenly shoved the smaller mech along.

A second later the Jeep recovered and resumed rolling along, but anyone who could read groundframe body language could see the anger in every turn of his tires. Onslaught slowed, cautious, but it hadn’t been his proximity that tipped the scales. Swindle had rarely been so angry, and it had nothing to do with crowding. Road rage had nothing on this. There were so many things _wrong_ with what had just been said to him that his _engine_ was shaking with utter rage.

“I am not a commodity to be bought and sold,” he hissed. “You have no say in my time or my activities. Unless Megatron authorizes it, I belong to **me**.” And Soundwave had just been blacklisted. Completely blacklisted. Belonging to a gestalt was _not the same_ as belonging to a carrier mech, and assuming that Onslaught had any sort of off-duty authority over him to the point where Soundwave assumed a customer could go over his head -- no. No and no. “I will conduct my business wherever and whenever I want, and if you have a problem with what I do in or out of private, **you still have no say in it**.” No more than Onslaught could interfere in any other Decepticon’s life, which was the part that the hard-helmed commander couldn’t seem to get through his head.

Swindle was no one’s property.

He braked and intentionally slammed his back end into Onslaught’s front grill when the larger Decepticon started to say something. “This conversation is over. If you’ve learned anything from the past few months, you won’t try and start it again,” he said coldly. 

“Don’t give me orders,” Onslaught snarled right back, heavier motor roaring in a way that had the cars ahead and behind suddenly paying far too close attention to the robots in disguise. “Your dramatics are causing a rift in the unit that will get us all boxed again if this keeps on. Bear in mind that you are one of us, and that will not change no matter how you try to pretend otherwise!”

If Onslaught’s anger ran hot, Swindle’s burned like hellfire. He hadn’t intended on giving away this ace in the hole, but Onslaught’s arrogance had him ragequitting the whole game. “Think again, fragger,” he spat through the commlink. “I haven’t been pretending at all. If anything goes wrong, you’re on your own! Shockwave re-opened my case for a separate trial years ago, taking new evidence into consideration and changing my sentence. According to the new judgment, I’ve **served** my time, and Megatron signed off on that!” 

This time, it was Onslaught’s axles that froze up. Swindle slammed the open line closed and swerved out onto the shoulder suddenly, taking off down the side of the road in a burst of acceleration that the larger groundframe couldn’t match. Fuming, the Jeep sped all the way around the accident and tore off down the freeway, and from there back to base. Although he did take the time to land and roll around on a beach before heading out over the ocean. 

Covered in sand and salt crusts, he sailed right on by Soundwave when the launch towers’ doors opened, head held high and optics harder than stone.

He wasn’t bored anymore.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	22. Pt. 22

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Twenty-Two**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

There was a pet under the blankets in the common room.

Thundercracker looked at Blitzwing. Blitzwing gave Astrotrain a look. Astrotrain shook his head and turned to give Reflector a ‘what the frag?’ expression. Reflector gave a united shrug. They shot a subtle look at the security camera, which they didn’t fail to notice had turned toward the show. Maybe Soundwave had paid for a public session? Highly unlikely, but nobody else was stepping forward. The Constructicons were on their way, in fact, because Scrapper and Mixmaster had their own bugs in the comm. system just in case of such a situation.

Not this situation exactly, but a situation with the concept of ‘Swindle’ and ‘pet’ in close relations.

Swindle turned over on his pet bed and stretched luxuriously, hands and feet briefly visible before he tucked them close again. The fuzzy black material over him settled closer as he grunted a little and wriggled about under it. It’d been another anonymous gift. A huge swathe of silky faux fur fabric had just turned up one day in the pet bed kept near the couch in the common room. The purple leopard print one had turned up soon after.

More wriggling, and the merchant was barely visible. Swindle gave a wide, sleepy yawn before nudging his face into the chamois and dozing off again. The black blanket covered him in a dense pile of fabric. The purple one had been gradually pushed and kicked aside, and three mechs took a step forward to correct that. 

They saw each other move and stopped dead, eyeing each other. Nobody knew who the paying client was. Nobody wanted to trample on somebody else’s session. It was an odd courtesy, but it had been almost _five years_ since Swindle opened for a session. He’d returned grubbier than ever from every mission and refused to even return Soundwave’s messages; he’d bought a new Jeep roof bonnet and laced it on right here in the common room while Spectro stared and pinged him repeatedly with contracts; he’d been on shift every time Blitzwing was off throughout the entire football season; he’d tossed a leash and collar in Astrotrain-grey down on the pet bed in passing one day and hadn’t picked it up since; he wouldn’t accept anything but essential repairs from any Constructicon but Long Haul; he wouldn’t even let Thundercracker touch him. 

In short, nobody wanted to screw this up. Whoever had talked Swindle into being a cute, sleepy pet purring his engine in the common room, kudos to him and let them learn this mystic sorcery for their own use!

They gave each other another round of _‘Is it you? It’s not me.’_ looks.

Swindle continued to look adorably rumpled under the blankets. “Prr-prr-prr,” his motor rumbled. Thundercracker swallowed audibly.

A Combaticon walked in and halted, visor wide, as six Decepticons turned to pin him with an assessing look. Sure, he wasn’t Brawl, but Blast Off was one of the gestalt. He’d do. Nobody else dared do anything, but they were capable of glaring at him until _he_ did something.

Much to his visible unease, the shuttle found himself pushed by overt peer pressure toward the couch. 

Lazy purple optics lit dimly when Blast Off perched in acute discomfort on edge of the couch. “Prrrr?”

His gestaltmate stared straight ahead, hands on knees and shoulders starting to inch up around his helm. Swindle had made it abundantly clear throughout the three years since the desert that the rest of the Combaticons -- with the exception of Brawl, because Brawl was the only neutral ground available in the Onslaught-Swindle cold war -- could go rot in the Pit. To have the missing part of the gestalt purring his engine and rustling about under a slagging piece of material _this close_ was hitting buttons Blast Off didn’t typically have on his control board. The complete lack of hostility was almost painful. It made the gestalt links sit up and _want_.

Blast Off hadn’t known how much the gestalt links missed their absent member until Swindle was within touching distance.

The shuttle was just waiting for the blow to fall. “What are you doing?” he asked. His voice came out at a slightly higher pitch than normal, but it stayed calm.

Toy mech didn’t know what he was talking about. Toy mech was being toy mech. He yawned and stretched again, and curled his little groundframe hands under his little groundframe chin. He wound the blankets up into the cutest little knot of purring groundframe pet. He was so small and touchable. Look at him.

Blast Off’s hands twitched on his knees. Swindle blinked his pretty purple optics up at the shuttle, big and sweet, and knew precisely how hard the shuttle craved physical contact. It was one thing to feed the spark-deep bond’s needed contact through battle merges, and another thing entirely to have the empty, gaping hole in the Combaticons right here beside him. Swindle turned on his back to show his belly like some kind of entirely too pettable creature.

“Stop that,” Blast Off demanded, vocalizer strained. “Stop acting like a beast. You’re not a -- “ The demand turned into a strangled sound, almost a squeak, when Swindle turned back over and ducked under the blanket to rise up suddenly, hands on the arm of the couch. 

The blanket covered his head, hiding his optics until only his nose was visible to push into Blast Off’s arm. Swindle sniffed industriously, mostly hidden under the blanket. It just served to make him look yet more like a curious creature. What was this Blast Off? Was it edible? His tongue flicked out to sample, and he gave a snort. No, not edible. He shook his head and snuffled a bit, and the blanket drooped down further to cover all of his face.

A hand rose and pushed the blanket off the top of the merchant’s head. Blast Off didn’t seem to be in control of it. The shuttle’s wide visor watched his own hand in blank disbelief as it slowly smoothed over the top of Swindle’s helm to cup the back. Swindle blinked and tipped his head to side, optics bright and a small smile on his lips. The hand was light. Gentle. The way it held his helm would have been impersonal if not for the small, unconscious massage of Blast Off’s fingertips as they slid down the back of his neck.

Swindle shut off his optics. His engine purred enthusiastic pleasure in response. “Prrrrrr!”

Blast Off stood abruptly, clumsy in his haste, and stood there staring at his hand as if betrayed. After a moment, he turned and blindly walked from the room, fleeing what he couldn’t let go of.

Still purring, Swindle burrowed back into his pet bed nest and smiled to himself.

**[* * * * *]**


	23. Pt. 23

**Title:** Lease or Buy  
 **Warning:** Pet play  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Twenty-Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Brawl was a tank. Vortex was a helicopter, and not a civilian one. Onslaught was a military missile-truck. Blast Off was a _shuttle_ , for frag's sake. 

And then there was Swindle, the Jeep. Not only a noncombatant groundframe, but a _small_ one. It was no wonder the rest of the faction found him either pathetically weak or unconventionally cute. No matter how many guns he kept on hand, he was simply built different than most Decepticons. 

Unfortunately, it didn't matter how his frame had been reinforced by becoming part of a combiner team: Swindle's body was the weak point on Bruticus. That's just how it was, considering the others in the unit. Not only did the Autobots tend to try and shoot him more, but his plating couldn't stand up to as much firepower. On his own, locked and loaded, Swindle could hold his own. In a bizarre turn of expectations, it was when the Combaticons combined that he was exposed without his usual means of compensating for his frametype.

If Bruticus didn’t take the field, Swindle could typically walk away clean. Or limp, at least. It was when Bruticus formed that he took the most damage. He still got luckier than the other Combaticons, sometimes, but even the merchant’s notorious good luck took a hit every once and a while.

This had been one such battle. At least he hadn’t been alone in being damaged. The Autobots had concentrated fire on every Decepticon gestalt’s weak points, dropping everything else to make sure the combiner teams were out of action early. One minute, Swindle had been transforming to join -- the next he’d woken up groggily under Hook’s care. Being Hook, the Constructicon had then spent the next two hours of surgery informing Swindle of how lousy a warrior the mech was, why he should be dead six times over, and how much the merchant owed him, Hook, his savior, for salvaging a living body out of the pile of half-dead scrap metal dragged back to the base.

Swindle had laid there and taken the abuse, because what the frag else could he do? He’d just stared up at the too-bright lights of the repair bay and mentally added a 17% commission fee onto every purchase the Constructicons ever made from him, ever again. They didn’t need that specialty ammunition. Surely one of them could make it themselves, since they wouldn’t be buying it from Swindle any more. Oh, and those additives Mixmaster liked to play with in his off-time? He could find another supplier. 

Hook’s derogatory rant trailed off suddenly into silence. Swindle blinked and turned his head, dully curious.

On the other side of the repair slab, the door had opened. Scrapper stood in the doorframe. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at Hook. 

Once again, the merchant found himself wondering about the internal dynamics of the Constructicons. Usually they seemed like such a stable bunch, but then something like this would happen, and Hook would be subtly putting the table between himself and his gestalt leader for the rest of the repair job. Meanwhile, Scrapper’s exaggerated courtesy to Swindle made it very clear Hook didn’t represent the Constructicons’ attitude toward him _at all_. In fact, his sharp-edged looks hinted, Hook might just be in trouble for angering him.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Swindle wasn’t in the mood to play on Hook’s inability to look straight at him anymore. He felt mulish and in pain. “Is there anything else to be done, here?”

Scrapper stopped examining one of his blueprints over in the corner and came closer to the repair slab. “There’s no rush, Swindle. Stay and rest.”

“Don’t touch me,” the Jeep muttered, baring his teeth. “Can I go or not?”

The bulldozer Constructicon looked down at him for a moment before conceding there was no way to win this battle. Swindle was well and truly pissed off, now. He looked across the prone mech at his gestaltmate, and a rich note of threat entered his voice. “Our patient asked a question, Hook.”

“You’re free to go,” Hook answered obediently. Those finely-tuned instruments of surgery he called hands twitched as he set about closing the Jeep’s plating. He still wouldn’t look at Swindle, but he wasn’t able to look up at his unit commander, either. “Stay off that leg as much as possible, and power down whenever your generator output dips before 65%.” Stepping back, he gave a dismissive wave and turned away.

The last Swindle saw of him as the merchant limped for the door was the defensive hunch to the surgeon’s shoulders. Scrapper was just rounding the repair slab when the door closed.

He’d consider lowering that commission fee to 15%. Maybe.

Now what? His generator was already whining lower, output sucked low by self-repair. He didn’t want to go back to his quarters, not with Vortex still in the underwater base somewhere waiting for rotor blade replacements to be manufactured. Making a target of himself wasn’t in the agenda today.

To the common room it was. Swindle was lucky, really. He had a bed there, too. He wasn’t really in the mood to open for a session out of nowhere, not after six years of refusing everyone, but he wouldn’t object terribly if someone took it in their head to try pampering him. Being hand-fed some energon would suit him just fine. Thundercracker would do. Soundwave probably wouldn’t be interested, but maybe Astrotrain…

Maybe Astrotrain _would_ have been interested, but the option was cleanly swiped from the triplechanger’s hands the minute Swindle flopped down in his pet bed. “Eep!” His horn gave a tiny beep as he was swept up in a bundle of purple leopard print cloth. “Brawl!”

“Uh-huh.” The tank settled back on the couch, teammate in lap and a gamepad in hand. He looked like he barely noticed what he’d done, much less that Swindle was now squirming about in shock in the crook of one arm. He just cocked his head to the other side to see around the smaller Decepticon.

Swindle opened his mouth to object, but his gestalt links pinged. He blinked. Then he sighed and snuggled down, pushing his legs out of Brawl’s lap onto the rest of the couch as he got comfortable. The damage reports must have leaked across Bruticus’ consciousness before the combiner collapsed on the battlefield. Brawl’s side of the gestalt bond was demanding reassurance of Swindle’s condition, and Swindle’s side was determined to give it. Physical contact was the next best thing to a hook-up.

It was one way to be cared for, he supposed. Inching around and half-curling under Brawl’s very large chest, the merchant let his motor purr into rhythm with the bigger Combaticon’s, until they fell into a pleasant sync that rattled their plating in a gentle way. It was quite relaxing. Thundercracker would kill for the chance to buy an hour of it.

When someone got close enough to register on his powered-down scanners, that’s whom Swindle first assumed it was. Lighting one optic, however, revealed the silent observer to be Onslaught.

Great. Here it’d come. Onslaught would order Brawl to dump him onto the floor and give him that exasperated, angry, _disgusted_ glare that gave his opinion on Swindle playing pet. This was exactly why their stupid cold war had stretched on for so long. This was also why Onslaught had spent six years on Megatron’s bad side. The fact that the mech was stubbornly refusing to learn cause and response had Swindle’s systems rousing into an irritated growl even before Onslaught said anything.

Although Onslaught didn’t say anything. His vents sighed audibly, but instead of ordering Brawl to toss the smallest Combaticon to the floor, he just waved a hand at the tank. Brawl obediently slid along the couch to free up some space, which their unit commander gingerly sat down on. Just as gingerly, he pinched Swindle’s ankle tire between two fingers and slid under the Jeep’s leg.

Swindle, utterly confused, found himself sprawled across Brawl and Onslaught’s laps. Wrapped securely in blankets, purple optics wide and bright in surprise above fuzzy fabric, he laid there and blinked a lot.

One of Onslaught’s hands came down to set, almost tentative, on his foot. When Swindle failed to kick in protest, the larger Decepticon pulled out a datapad and started to read, ignoring everything else.

Given that he couldn’t think of anything else to do -- honestly, he was dumbfounded -- Swindle eventually made himself comfortable again and dozed off. Without moving that foot in the slightest.

When Thundercracker did get off-shift and venture over, Swindle kept his optics offline through the mech asking if Swindle had opened for sessions.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” Onslaught said, voice as careful as the hand still on the merchant’s foot.

Swindle hid a smile against Brawl and pretended to sleep.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
